


Love and Other Unrelated Issues

by Dinkel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Lack of Communication, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9928184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dinkel/pseuds/Dinkel
Summary: Have you ever considered how very fortunate it was that Éowyn of Rohan fell in love with Faramir of Gondor? After the War of the Ring, provisions for the future have to be made and as his sister is no longer available it falls to Éomer to secure the alliance with Gondor.





	1. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters, places, objects, concepts etc. that you recognise from the Lord of the Rings universe belong to J.R.R. Tolkien or to their respective copyright owners. This story is not meant to offend anyone and I do not make any money with it.
> 
> Author's Note: It's been quite some time since I posted my last story, hasn't it? Well, here is one of the reasons for this long break. I had envisioned a light-hearted, romantic story, not too long, not too short, something of a palate cleanser if you will, while I thought of ideas for my next big project. But alas, I severely underestimated the subject matter or maybe gained a new perspective on it while writing and thus, this transitional project turned out not quite so easy-peasy after all...
> 
> Warnings: Extremely dubious consent, sexual content.

_"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."  
_ \- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

The newly crowned King of the Rohirrim, Éomer, Éomund's son, swung lightly from his horse, the White Tree of Gondor at his back as he strode towards his first official meeting with King Elessar of Gondor. The last time he had been here, the smell of battle had hung in the air, smoke and blood and the faint echoes of terrified screams. Éowyn had been a pale ghost wandering through the halls, lost in despair and grief. He smiled as he thought of his sister now, glowing with happiness and love in the arms of a man who understood and respected her strong spirit.

"Éomer!" Aragorn's greeting jolted him from his thoughts as the other king quickly approached him and clasped his arms. "It is good to see you again, my friend!"

"Likewise," Éomer replied, surprised to find the hall empty when he had expected to find Aragorn surrounded by his advisors and guards. "It has been too long."

"Still, there is always enough time for hospitality and the renewal of our friendship before we discuss matters of state," Aragorn answered, leading him to the table that had been set up with all manners of food and drink. "Sit down, have a drink and something to eat and tell me how you have fared."

"Thank you," Éomer answered, accepting the goblet of watered down wine Aragorn handed him. "It has been a long ride indeed, though I admit I was glad for the opportunity."

They exchanged smiles of understanding, both men accustomed to wide open spaces and the solitude of the wild now forced into stuffy halls, social gatherings and political manoeuvrings.

"I am lucky to have Arwen and Faramir to help me," Aragorn offered and Éomer detected some strange emphasis in his words that he couldn't parse. "Without Arwen's soothing influence and Faramir's keen understanding of politics and his tireless efforts to smooth the transition, I fear Gondor would be clamouring to have their stewards back."

"I am sure you are exaggerating," Éomer replied. "The people of Gondor love their king and from what I have heard the last Ruling Steward of Gondor made rather a miserable if lasting impression."

A shadow flitted over Aragorn's handsome face, like the younger king had touched upon something painful. "I would thank you not to bring this subject up with Faramir. He carries enough hurts without being reminded of his father's last actions."

Éomer inclined his head, not sure he wanted to know exactly what Aragorn was referring to. It didn't matter in any case; it had been a thoughtless comment, and he was not so tactless as to repeat such words to the man's son.

The easy camaraderie they had forged on the battlefield carried them through the meal as they talked about other things: the rebuilding efforts in their respective kingdoms, the patrols along their borders, hosting elvish in-laws and Éowyn's impromptu wedding.

"I am glad she found her happiness," Aragorn said softly.

"So am I. I just wished he had waited until after their marriage to sweep her quite so thoroughly off her feet," Éomer grumbled good-naturedly. "Now everything has to be arranged post-haste before it becomes apparent that she is with child."

"Leofric gave her hope when all she saw was darkness," Aragorn offered. "I would not begrudge them for sharing their love freely."

"I don't," Éomer assured him. "And in any case, my sister does not need me to defend her honour and Leofric may be a simple rider from the Eastfold, but he fought bravely during the war and has shown Éowyn nothing but kindness and love. It is true that I would not have picked him as her husband, but then Éowyn has always been keen when it came to looking into the hearts of people."

Aragorn topped up his goblet. "And what about you? Is there someone you would pick for yourself?"

"I do not see any fated romance in my near future." Éomer laughed softly. "I can barely keep up with all my kingly duties – I would have no time for the duties of a husband on top of that."

"But having a wife would help, don't you think?" Aragorn suggested mildly, rising from his chair and indicating that they should take a postprandial stroll. "I spent the few weeks until Arwen's arrival hiding from potential devotees and self-proclaimed matchmakers. I was informed, repeatedly, that an unwed king was simply unfeasable."

"I have heard that as well," Éomer admitted, thinking of all the aspiring wives he had had to turn away, all the men that had tried to casually bring up the good qualities of their daughters, sisters or nieces. "But even if… I cannot follow my heart anymore, Aragorn, who ever I decide to marry has to be… strategic. Good for my kingdom, not just for me. If I pick one, I am bound to offend ten others and their respective families and houses. It is easier to do a bit of hiding."

Aragorn inclined his head. "What if you were to choose someone from another kingdom?"

Éomer swivelled around to fix the other man through narrowed eyes as it dawned on him where Aragorn was heading with this. "I was told you wanted to discuss the Oath of Eorl. Clearly that is not all you had in mind."

"I admit I was hoping to strengthen the alliance between our kingdoms even further." Aragorn rubbed the back of his neck as if embarrassed. "Sauron is defeated, for good as we hope, but there is no telling what foes and hardships the future will bring. Nor can we predict if those who come after us will have the same rapport and the same understanding of the need to help each other as we do. The Oath of Eorl was all but forgotten when it was needed most; who is to say that whatever agreement we reach in the coming days will be remembered when the time comes?"

"Who did you have in mind?" Éomer sighed, the wind tugging his long blond hair as they stepped out onto the spur of rock that divided the city's levels in two.

It wasn't that he found the idea absurd or even surprising, but while his uncle had often talked about Éowyn or Théodred finding a suitable and strategically valuable match, such discussions had never moved to involve him. He had never aspired to be anything more than he was, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, respected by his peers, loyal to his king. He had never expected to be king or to be faced with such choices.

"Prince Imrahil's daughter Lothíriel is of an age to be wed, beautiful to look upon and of a noble line," Aragorn suggested mildly, while they looked out on his city and his kingdom.

Éomer sighed again, bowing his head between his bent elbows. "I have met her briefly."

"You could spend some time with her while you are in Gondor, and maybe you will grow fond of her. This need not be only a political arrangement."

Éomer clenched his hands around the stone banister, grit his teeth against the desire to shout out his frustrations. "I may be able to grow fond of her, but I will never love her as a husband loves his wife, never desire her as a man desires a woman."

Aragorn hummed, not surprised just thoughtful. It still irked the young King of Rohan.

"Do not tell me you have not heard the rumours! I have never made a secret of my desires, nor have I been discreet in my escapades."

"I did not mean to upset you, my friend." Aragorn rested a supporting hand on his back.

Éomer took a few deep breaths, letting Aragorn's touch and the cool breeze sooth his temper. "Is this what it means to be king? Having to sacrifice my own happiness and that of an innocent woman for some abstract construct of peace?"

"Sometimes I think so," Aragorn replied, huffing out a quiet, mirthless laugh. "But in this case, I believe we can find a better solution. How would you feel about marrying a man?"

Éomer craned his head to the side, looking at the older man with open scepticism. "A man?"

"Faramir, to be exact," Aragorn replied, unconcerned. "It's not unheard of for two people of the same sex to bond in this way. I admit it is rarer in royal families because of the issue of heirs, but given that Éowyn is already with child that seems less of a concern in your case."

"Faramir." Éomer wondered how quickly he has been reduced to echoing single words, even as he realised that this had been Aragorn's plan all along.

Aragorn nodded jovially, raining praise on Faramir like he was a flower dying of thirst. Éomer listened with half an ear as he tried to wrap his head around Aragorn's proposal. He didn't really know Faramir, having met him only a few times - whenever Rohan had had dealings with Gondor in the past, Denethor had sent his older son. But he had always got along well with Boromir with his easy laugh and boisterous nature, admired the older man for his skill with the sword and self-assured demeanour. And he had been handsome, broad-shouldered and well-muscled, with hair darker than his own. He could imagine marrying Faramir if he was anything like that.

He bit back a smirk, reminding himself that he could not base such an important decision on personal preferences, not while the fate of Rohan rested on his shoulders. A suitable marriage would indeed strengthen the alliance between Rohan and Gondor, secure the peace for generations to come. And Faramir, it was easy to see, was held in high esteem by King Elessar, even if Gondor had no more need of stewards. And while he had never worried about heirs before, Aragorn was right that Éowyn's children would easily fill that role.

"What is Faramir's opinion on this?" Éomer asked, possibly interrupting Aragorn's laudatio mid-sentence.

"I believe you had best ask him that yourself," Aragorn answered, not visibly thrown or put out by the interruption. "I admit I want what is best for my kingdom – but I also want what is best for you and Faramir. If you do not feel comfortable with the idea, our kingdoms will prosper even without a marriage."

"Fine by me," Éomer replied, his mind still racing with possibilities. "And I would not want to buy a pig in a poke."

He ignored Aragorn's scowl at his choice of words, laughing softly. "Where can I find my prospective husband, do you know?"

"Faramir has been helping to get your men situated," Aragorn replied after a short pause. "Near the stables on the Sixth Level there is an inn returning rangers like to frequent."

"Then that is where I shall be heading," Éomer answered, already turning away. "We can continue our discussion on the morrow, after Faramir has shown me the sights of the city."

He strode away before Aragorn could reply, glad that the older man couldn't see his grin. Aragorn had his own sense of humour, he knew, but sometimes he was a little too uptight, dignified and honourable, like the kings of old, but very much unlike the men Éomer was accustomed to.

And in any case, Éomer had no interest in Aragorn's matchmaking services. Now that the thought had been planted, that the option was on the table, he couldn't wait to speak with Faramir, to see him, to find out if this was something he could imagine for himself.

It was already late in the day, the sun sending its last warm rays to light up the walls of the White City, as he made his way down to the Sixth Level, easily making out the inn Aragorn had mentioned. A drunkard was sitting out front, raising his glass to anyone who passed and inviting them to join him for a drink.

"Bes' ale in the lan', lemme tell ya," he slurred to Éomer, almost tipping from his stool. "Nothin' like tha' anywhere else. Here 'ake a sip!"

He thrust his half empty tankard in Éomer's general direction, sloshing ale over his hands.

"I will take your word for it," Éomer replied, shaking his head at so much self-indulgence, and stepped past him into the inn.

It was like every other inn he had ever been to: loud and crowded, dimly lit and with the mingled scent of alcohol and sweat in the air. He spotted his men at a long table to the right, tankards of ale, baskets of bread and a roast pig in front of them.

"Drinking on the job, I see," he said sternly, resting a heavy hand on Hereward's shoulder.

"Just wetting some parched throats, your majesty," Cenric replied and while the tone was familiar, the moniker was still new. "Trying to get our honourable steward to spill some state secrets."

His riders laughed, some raising their glasses in a toast, even as the man in question got to his feet and greeted Éomer with a small bow.

"Welcome to Gondor, King Éomer. If you would care to join us, we would be honoured," the young man said respectfully, offering his own seat to the king.

"I am quite certain that my men have grown tired of the honour of my company after three days riding," Éomer replied sarcastically while he studied the other man. "And King Elessar has already plied me with food and drink – but I would be interested in a tour of the White City."

He could see the family resemblance between Faramir and his late brother, broad shoulders and toned muscles, light brown hair and clear blue eyes. But Boromir had had a presence to him that demanded respect, the bearing of a leader, brash and dominant and at times even belligerent. Faramir seemed less self-assured, soft-spoken and reverent if not exactly obsequious.

"Of course, my lord," Faramir hastily walked around the table, stopped one of the serving maids for a brief chat and then reached Éomer's side, keeping a respectful distance. "I would be - "

He cut himself off, a soft red tinge spreading over his cheeks. Éomer smirked to himself, deducing that though he had looked forward to pitting his will against someone like Boromir, it might also be interesting to see in how many ways he could get Faramir flustered and blushing.

"I assure you my men can entertain themselves." He threw a significant look at Béorwine to remind him not to let things get out of hand and then led Fararmir from the tavern. "Aragorn mentioned the stables were around here, maybe we could start there."

If he was fulfilling every cliché about the Rohirrim, so be it, but he found you could tell a lot about a man by the way he treated his horse.

"Of course, my lord," Faramir agreed readily, stopping briefly to heft the drunkard out front back onto his stool before leading Éomer the few paces to the stables. "I rubbed down your horse and fed him some hay. I hope I have not overstepped."

Éomer looked at him in surprise. "Firefoot usually is not very fond of strangers." Meaning that he liked to kick and bite anything and anyone that got within striking range.

"I may have bribed him with an apple," Faramir admitted in a tone of voice somewhere between joking and chagrined, glancing briefly up at him and then averting his gaze. "He is in one of the stalls at the back because they offer more room."

Éomer hummed thoughtfully, easily slipping into the stall Faramir had indicated. Firefoot greeted him with a soft snort before going back to munching on his hay, allowing Éomer to lean against his shoulder but not paying him any particular attention. For all of Firefoot's good qualities, Éomer had no illusions that he could compete with fresh hay and so he used the time to take everything in and study Faramir, who had entered the stall diagonally opposite of him.

Faramir was talking softly to a chestnut mare, feeding her slices of apple, checking her hooves and patting her neck.

"Is it not too warm for that blanket?" Éomer questioned, indicating the rug Faramir was adjusting on the horse's back.

"She was exposed to the Black Breath of the Nazgûl when she brought me back to Minas Tirith," Faramir said softly, caressing the mare's forehead. "I do not know how their fetid presence affects animals, but Lainith has always been my loyal companion and deserves all the care I can give her."

In all honesty, Éomer had almost forgotten that Éowyn hadn't been the only one hurt by those wretched creatures and as he looked at the other man with new regard, he saw some of the same despair that only Leofric had been able to fully dispel from his sister's eyes, the barely noticeable slump of his shoulders, the way he favoured his right arm.

As if noticing his gaze, Faramir looked up at him with a gentle smile. "King Elessar has done much to help me heal and I heard your sister is doing better as well. I am glad for that."

"Have you met her?" Éomer asked, patting Firefoot's neck in farewell before leaving the stall to join Faramir.

"Briefly, in the Houses of Healing," Faramir answered, feeding his mare another slice of apple. "She was very kind, though we both did not enjoy the thought of remaining there while the battle waged on without us. She tried to convince me to get some rest and I did likewise, while we both hatched plans to sneak past the healers and join the action."

Éomer laughed, easily imagining that to be true, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. "That seems about right. I am sure she would be happy to meet you again."

"You are too kind, my lord," Faramir murmured modestly. "Would you like me to show you the rest of the city now?"

"Let us do that, yes," Éomer agreed, squeezing Faramir's shoulder once before letting go.

He hadn't seen much of Minas Tirith the last time and Faramir thawed as he talked about his city, greeted and enquired after people left and right, showed Éomer all of his preferred spots and shared anecdotes and facts about the city's history that he doubted could be found in any book - even if Faramir's favourite place in the whole city was the library.

The moment in the stables had already told him much about Faramir's character, enough even if push came to shove, but the time spent together affirmed his conclusions. A part of him was still irritated that Aragorn had even dared suggest this, as if he was but a peasant to be ordered about by his liegelord. But then he remembered how instrumental Aragorn's help had been in freeing his uncle's mind and defending his people and the anger passed.

The fact of the matter was that while Aragorn had allies all throughout Middle Earth - the elves of Rivendell, Lothlórien and Mirkwood, the dwarves of the Erebor and the Iron Hills, the Dúnedain of Arnor and the hobbits of the Shire - Rohan had no such ties, passing acquaintances rather than true relationships, simple exchanges instead of sustained trade. They needed to make provisions now, create alliances so that they would not stand alone in their time of need. And the easiest way to do so was through marriage.

"My lord?" Faramir's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "I did not mean to bore you - maybe you would rather see something else?"

"I think I have seen enough," Éomer answered. "Maybe you could show me to my quarters."

"Of course," Faramir was quick to agree, directing them out of the library and through a maze of corridors. "Your men are in the rooms adjacent to yours. Lord Ealraed and Lord Dirol already retired, but I had the cook send up some supper."

Faramir opened the door for him and awkwardly hovered in the doorway as Éomer looked around. There was a fire crackling in the hearth and the room was pleasantly warm after the slight chill of the air outside. His saddlebags had been deposited next to the bed, downy covers and pristine white sheets.

"Come join me for a drink," Éomer said, noting the carafe of wine that had been left for him, next to a basket of fruit and a covered cheese plate.

He sank into one of the high-backed chairs and poured them each a glass. Faramir carefully closed the door and sat down opposite of him, taking a small sip of wine after Éomer had raised his glass in a silent toast.

"Do you know what Aragorn and I talked about?" Éomer demanded, observing how Faramir's straight-backed posture tensed even further.

"I know he is concerned with strengthening the alliance between Rohan and Gondor," Faramir answered promptly. "He thinks a marriage could be beneficial for both of our peoples."

"Do you know whom he suggested for this purpose?" Éomer pressed, taking another sip of the dry red wine.

"My cousin Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, and me," Faramir replied, avoiding his gaze. "I can introduce you to her, if you wish. She is an amazing woman with a kind heart and a great sense of humour. And beautiful too."

"I do not doubt that, but you may have noticed that I am sitting here with you," Éomer said. "How do you feel about that?"

"I would be honoured, my lord, if you were to choose me." Faramir was blushing again and rolling the stem of his glass between his slender fingers.

Éomer almost - no, definitely rolled his eyes. "Yes, I had gathered that, but would you be happy about it?"

"My lord? I do not understand the question." Faramir looked up at him. "Why would I not be happy?"

He didn't know whether to find relief in Faramir's earnest expression or feel rejected by his lack of enthusiasm. The strategic advantageous of the proposed union were clear, but could he resign himself to aiming for friendship rather than marriage, to camaraderie rather than passion? It would be easier to settle for an unfulfilling marriage with Lothíriel or any other woman than to have this gorgeous man as his husband in name only.

"You are not attracted to men then?" Éomer demanded, tasting the disappointment on his tongue.

But Faramir blushed brighter than ever, jerking his head, and Éomer felt a wave of desire crash down over him. "I think you're very handsome, my lord."

"You do not know how happy it makes me to hear you say that, my dear future husband." Éomer grinned, getting up in one swift move, "Because I have wanted to do this from the moment I first laid eyes on you."

He took Faramir by the lapels of his shirt, dragging him up so that their mouths were withing kissing distance, and swallowed the other man's response by capturing his plump lips and tasting a hint of wine, a note of honey. With quick hands, he tugged Faramir's shirt out of his breeches, took a moment to caress over defined abdominal muscles, and then moved on to unlace his breeches.

"My lord?" Faramir questioned while Éomer left love bites on the fair skin of his neck. "I… Should we not wait until after the wedding to consummate?"

"Are you worried for your virtue?" Éomer teased between kisses. "It is good practise to take a ride before buying a horse and the same is certainly true when committing to a life together. Would you not agree?"

Faramir gave a startled moan as Éomer's hand closed around the soft velvet skin of his erection and the young king took that as his answer, claiming Faramir's mouth in another biting kiss. Faramir was already half-hard, his shaft hot and rising from its nest of cinnamon curls, and Éomer could easily see himself falling in love with the noises he could wring from the other man, choked moans and surprised gasps and breathless keens. He moved his hand carefully at first, in an easy up and down movement with a slight squeeze around the base, until there was enough precome to slick the way.

Faramir was clutching to his shoulders, soft lashes fluttering against his cheeks whenever his unfocused eyes drifted shut, his mouth gaping open to draw in stuttered pants. Éomer hid his smirk against Faramir's neck, licking the salty clean skin and feeling the racing heartbeat under his lips.

"Do not hold back on my account, sweet Faramir," he whispered in the other's man ear, worrying his earlobe between his teeth and pressing his own burgeoning erection against Faramir's hip. "This is just the opening act."

As if Faramir had only waited for his cue, he screwed his eyes tightly shut, threw his head back and gushed out all over Éomer's hand and his own stomach. Éomer teased his fingers over Faramir's softening manhood, through the mess on his stomach and waited until the Gondorian had regained his breath and focused on him with a still slightly dazed gaze.

"Do you want me to…?" Faramir asked with a fierce blush and a slight nod down at Éomer's by now almost painful erection.

"I want you to undress," Éomer murmured in his ear before taking Faramir's mouth in another bruising kiss. "And wait right here."

He drew back reluctantly, spending moments just taking the other man in - flushed cheeks and tussled hair, kiss-swollen lips and dazed eyes, shirt rucked and breeches undone, the perfect image of debauchery - and then hastened over to his bags. He riffled through his things and quickly found the saddle oil he had been looking for.

When he turned around, Faramir had stepped out of his breeches, toed of his boots and was just plucking his shirt away from his come-smeared stomach. Éomer had to kiss him again. Faramir stumbled back in surprise before he managed to stabilize himself against the table, allowing Éomer to step between his legs and grind his erection against his naked thigh.

"My lord, won't you get undressed as well?" Faramir asked, timidly caressing Éomer's chest through his shirt.

Éomer smirked, quickly pulling his shirt over his head and unlacing his breeches, pushing them down his legs and finally freeing his aching erection. Faramir reached out to take his manhood in hand, a question and unexpected daring in his eyes, but Éomer evaded his grasp.

"I want to be inside of you when I come," he said, taking Faramir by the hips and spinning him around. "Brace yourself against the table for me."

He moaned softly when Faramir complied, presenting him with his enticing backside, all fair skin over tight muscles. He slid his hands over the thin material of Faramir's shirt, felt the hard planes of muscles underneath, kneaded the firm flesh of his ass and then placed a light bite on one of his cheeks. Faramir jerked in surprise and Éomer laughed softly, repeating the action on the other side before gently spreading the globes of his ass and blowing on his puckered entrance. A shiver raced down Faramir's back.

Éomer loved his partners sensitive, responsive to his every touch, strong men that he could take apart with his lips and hands and cock, reduce to whimpers and keens, sighs and moans. Faramir proved to be exactly like that, bitten off moans answering every slow press of Éomer's fingers and a long wail the moment Éomer entered him for the first time in one smooth thrust until he was pressed flush against the other man.

He kissed the nape of Faramir's neck to distract himself from the overwhelming need to come right then and there. After he had given Faramir time to adjust and himself time to regain at least some composure and he set an easy rhythm in and out of the other man's tight passage, running his fingers soothingly through damp brown curls when Faramir pushed back to meet his strokes and almost threw him off balance.

"Easy there, my dear Faramir," he murmured, oblingingly speeding up his thrusts until he was pistoning hard into the other man, battering Faramir's prostate and racing inevitably towards his own orgasm.

His vision went white for a timeless moment as he buried himself deep within Faramir's clinging heat and coated his insides with his essence, marked him as his own in the most primal way. When he was spent he pulled out and slumped into the chair to calm his breathing and gather enough energy to open his eyes.

After a moment he heard the soft pad of naked feet and shortly after he felt a wet cloth against his stomach and manhood, gently cleaning him of the residues of their lovemaking.

"You can tell Aragorn I accept his offer," Éomer said, blinking his eyes open to find Faramir kneeling between his legs, already dressed and moderately put together. "I certainly accept." He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to Faramir's red lips.

"Yes, my lord," Faramir murmured, almost hastily getting to his feet. "I will tell him right away."

Éomer could only stare in surprise at the door as it swung shut behind Faramir, pondering whether he should be offended that Faramir was so eager for them to get married that he had forwent another round of pleasure. Probably not. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes with a satisfied smirk. It might in part be due to the amazing sex they had just shared, but he felt already half in love with Faramir and couldn't wait to fall all the way.


	2. Remove the World

_“Love removes the world for you, and just as surely when it's going well as when it's going badly.”  
\- _ Alice Munro, The Beggar Maid: Stories of Flo and Rose

Horns were blaring, bells ringing to announce the arrival of the envoy from Gondor in Edoras. Éomer stood out on the parapet, his sister at his side, the crown still unfamiliar and heavy on his brow, surveying the long line of riders for his fiancé.

“It almost seems like you are eager for this marriage to happen, dear brother,” Éowyn commented teasingly with a quick side-glance. “And here you had me thinking King Elessar forced your hand. Literally.”

“Very funny,” Éomer grumbled. “I just hope you realise that your lectures about propriety and duty lost all their credibility when you eloped with the stable boy.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes, primly pushing a strand of long blond hair back behind her ear. “He is not a stable boy, as you well know. And I am not lecturing you, either. I like Faramir, from the little I know about him, and I like him even better for causing that spring in your step.”

“You should have eloped with him and I could have absconded with a different stable boy every night,” Éomer suggested, but his heart wasn’t in it.

His sister, smart woman that she was, obviously didn’t believe him either. “You’re getting too old for that, anyway… and too important. You remember what happened with Théodred.”

She didn’t say it to be cruel, but Éomer still winced internally. Because the thing with Théodred - it had been a disaster on all fronts, hurt feelings all around. Even if he still had trouble adjusting to his new status, Éomer was well aware that there was a world of difference between a simple marshal propositioning another rider for a roll in the hay, and a king approaching one of his subjects in such a manner.

“I think this will be good for you,” Éowyn said softly, resting one small delicate hand on his forearm. “There is no rule against kings being happy and loving their husbands, you know?”

“Thank you,” Éomer answered, pressing a kiss into the crown of her soft hair before turning his attention back to his arriving guests. “It might be too soon to speak of love, but I do see a chance for it in the future.”

He just hoped that Faramir saw it the same way. He had missed him in the days following their dalliance, had even ventured to ask on the third day of dull negotiations if Faramir shouldn’t be present for them. But apparently orcs had been sighted in Ithilien, a small band only, but still worrisome enough that Faramir, as Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, had felt honour-bound to relieve his men. Éomer couldn’t fault him for that decision, honour and duty being something he understood only too well, but he still wished that Faramir had found the time to make his goodbyes in person.

It was a relief when he finally spotted Faramir, his hair shimmering red in the sunlight. There was a shy smile on his face as if he didn’t quite know how to handle all this attention, the Rohirrim excited to greet the heroes of the war and their future sovereign.

Éowyn dug a pointy elbow into his side. “You should go and welcome them.”

Éomer rolled his eyes. “Please do not take your mood swings out on me. That is what you have your stable boy for.”

He quickly turned around and strode down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, because for one, teasing Éowyn about pregnancy-related issues was becoming increasingly dangerous, and for another, he really couldn’t wait to greet Faramir.

The riders had gathered in the square, some already dismounted, while the last of the envoy was only just arriving. Faramir and Aragorn were in the centre and Éomer had to duck around horses and men to reach their side just as Faramir was swinging from his horse. He stepped behind him, putting his hands on Faramir’s waist to steady his descent and then spun him around to claim those inviting lips in a deep kiss.

Faramir’s lips were slightly chapped from the long ride and the harsh wind on the plains, but he opened easily to Éomer’s probing tongue and returned the kiss with endearing shyness. A pointed throat clearing eventually prompted Éomer to pull back, but he took a moment to suck on Faramir’s full bottom lip before releasing his mouth and resting his forehead against Faramir’s.

“My lord,” Faramir said softly. “King Éomer.” He made an aborted movement as if to bow, pressing their foreheads harder together for a moment before jerking back.

Éomer laughed, giving Faramir’s hip another squeeze before drawing back. “Welcome to Rohan, my dear Faramir. We are very pleased to have you.”

Aragorn cleared his throat again. “I do hope the rest of our party is welcome as well.”

“Of course, my friend,” Éomer assured him, reluctantly turning away from his fiancé to clasp Aragorn’s arm. “I am glad you found the time to visit and attend our wedding.”

“I would not miss it, though I fear Arwen is quite cross with me for forcing her to remain in Gondor to rule in my stead,” Aragorn replied with a small smile.

“Please let her know that she is always welcome to visit,” Éomer offered graciously, taking Faramir’s wrist in a loose hold to steer him up the stairs towards his sister. “I know you must be tired from your journey. Éowyn has provided refreshments for you in the hall and your quarters are ready if you wish to lay down before the festivities tonight.”

He waited just long enough to hear Aragorn’s thanks before he left him and the rest of his men in his sister’s capable hands and tugged Faramir towards his chambers.

“My lord?” Faramir questioned, slightly breathless as Éomer pressed him back against the door of his room. “Should we not… I mean, will you not be missed?”

“I missed **you** ,” Éomer gave back, framing Faramir’s face between his hands and bringing their mouths together in a chaste kiss. “We will do enough socialising this evening that I can take this time to welcome my future husband to his new home, would you not agree?”

Faramir sighed softly into the kiss, growing pliant beneath his touch and spreading his legs a little so that Éomer could press even closer. “As you wish, my lord.”

Éomer laughed at Faramir’s formality, especially as the hardness between Faramir’s legs told him that the young Gondorian was not as composed or unaffected as his words suggested. He pressed his nose into the soft patch of skin behind Faramir’s ear, breathed in the scent of him, and felt something in him settle that had been taut and tense ever since he had left Gondor.

His frenzy calmed, he cupped Faramir’s cheek gently, seeing the desire muted by embarrassment in his clear blue eyes. He traced Faramir’s yaw with his lips, the soft stubble of his beard leaving them tingling and creating a delicious contrast to the velvet taste of their next kiss. Faramir gave a soft moan, his hands tangling in Éomer’s wild blond mane as he pulled him closer to deepen the kiss.

Éomer was happy to allow Faramir’s initiative, to slip into the kiss as if into a pleasant dream, and only pulled back when they were both becoming breathless. Before Faramir could find another bout of daring, Éomer sank smoothly to his knees, unlacing Faramir’s breeches with nimble fingers. He half expected another timid objection, but Faramir was resting with his eyes closed against the door, his hand still buried in the young king’s hair.

He carefully freed Faramir’s erection, giving it a few leisurely strokes and then ducked down to mouth at his testicles, tipping them gently with his tongue before sucking them into the moist cavern of his mouth. Faramir made a sound like a sob, his hand tightening on golden strands before he released his grip and caressed the back of Éomer’s head in apology. Éomer hummed in approval, sending pleasurable vibrations all throughout Faramir’s body, and grasped the other man’s hips to hold him steady, hold him up, as he switched his attention to the real price. He licked along the underside of Faramir’s erection and placed a teasing kiss on its tip before taking him into his mouth without further ado, relishing in the moans Faramir couldn’t contain, the taste of Faramir’s arousal, the gentle hands in his hair.

Faramir came finally with a soft sigh, barely more than a breath released, his legs trembling with the effort to keep upright, and his forehead sinking to Éomer’s shoulder when the king stood to support him.

“I apologise, my lord. I will have recovered my strength momentarily,” Faramir murmured close to his ear, but it sounded as if he was drifting off to sleep rather than rousing himself from languor.

Éomer laughed, carding his fingers through Faramir’s sweaty hair, and carefully steered him towards the bed. “I would hate myself if I deprived you of your well-earned rest. Sleep, my beautiful husband-to-be, you have a wedding to attend to tonight and a wedding night with a very eager husband.”

Faramir blinked up at him with clouded blue eyes as Éomer pulled the down covers over his naked lower half. “I hope I have not disappointed you.”

“Disappointed is the very opposite of what I am,” Éomer answered, pressing a kiss to Faramir’s forehead. “I will see you tonight.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he heard Faramir’s soft reply as he pulled the curtains closed on the windows and then left the other man to his rest.

His breeches were still rather tight for a while and his face was probably flushed as if he was suffering from excessive heat, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision to postpone any further activities. To watch Faramir come, to be the cause of the other man’s pleasure and to feel the intimacy of their budding relationship was a reward in itself.

* * *

The Golden Hall was truly golden tonight – lit by torches along the walls and a hundred candles on the long tables that had been strategically placed to accommodate all the guests and celebrants. Everyone in Edoras - from counsellors and marshals to common stable boys and washer women - had been invited to join in the festivities, to partake of good food and plentiful wine, and there was a steady stream in and out of the great double doors. In the middle of the hall there was a bit of open space, always in flux, where a few couples - among them his sister and Leofric - were dancing to the merry tune played on a multitude of instruments. He wasn’t much of a dancer himself and when he had asked if Faramir wanted to take a spin, the Gondorian had blushingly confessed that he didn’t know how to dance with another man.

Éomer accepted another hearty punch to the shoulder and grinned good-naturedly at the bawdy jokes that were made at his expense, waiting for the right time to make his rebuttal while looking around the hall for his husband. He finally spotted him closer to the door, deep in conversation with some Lothlórien elves, and couldn’t help but think that Aragorn might have done him more than one favour with his suggestion. It was true that Faramir looked even more handsome than on any given day, in his deep black leather jerkin with the White Tree of Gondor stitched on his breast in fine silver thread, his hair shimmering in the light of the candles, his beard neatly trimmed to make him look younger and softer. But Faramir also knew how to talk with potential allies, how to be polite and gracious to their guests, listen to them with unwavering interest and make them feel welcomed and valued. Éomer had no such talent. He enjoyed the easy, uncomplicated comradeship with his men, the ribald humour, the straight-forward trials of strength, but diplomacy was beyond him. And yet, that was exactly what would be needed to strengthen his kingdom’s position, to forge alliances with those who would be able to help him rebuild and defend the peace. He needed Faramir.

“Ah, just look at that besotted look on his face,” Béorwine called jovially. “He can’t wait to get the young captain alone.”

“Who says I have to wait? If you will excuse me, I think I need to ravish my husband,” Éomer proclaimed to a chorus of hoots and laughter.

He quickly made his way through the hall to where Faramir was still talking to the elves, slipping a possessive arm around his trim waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I hope you will excuse us, my lords, for Faramir is very tired and I would like to show him to our bed,” Éomer addressed the elves, not suppressing his enjoyment at Faramir’s embarrassment.

The taller elf returned Éomer’s smirk. “We would not dream of keeping Lord Faramir from his husband. May your marriage be blessed and your lives long.”

“Le fael,” Faramir murmured with a small bow. _“_ Na lû e-govaned vîn.”(1)

The elves appeared pleased and inclined their heads in farewell as the new couple excused themselves from the hall.

“Is it wise for us to leave so early, my lord?” Faramir asked hesitantly, but obediently followed Éomer along the corridors to their room.

“Early? It is well past midnight,” Éomer replied, teasing a hand under Faramir’s jerkin and caressing the small of his back, the top of his buttocks. “And no-one can fault me for finding you irresistible tonight.”

Faramir was silent, a few hitched breaths the only acknowledgement of Éomer’s touch as they hastened through the thankfully empty corridors towards their room. Éomer pushed the door open and bid Faramir enter first before closing and locking the door behind him. He wanted to have Faramir all to himself and didn’t plan on being disturbed.

Faramir, meanwhile, had lit a few candles, just enough to avoid any unfortunate stumbles or undue delay in getting out of their clothes, and turned down the bedspread. The candles cast strange shadows over his handsome face, lending him a haunted quality that stirred Éomer’s heart, made him want to protect and cherish his husband as he deserved.

“My lord, I did not mean to imply that I was unhappy to leave,” Faramir said softly, probably uncomfortable under Éomer’s admiring gaze. “I hope to please you.”

“You will,” Éomer replied, gently taking Faramir in his arms and kissing the corner of his mouth. “Starting by calling me by my name. You are my husband now, Faramir; I think we can do away with titles.”

“Of course, my… Éomer,” Faramir agreed readily, and Éomer was probably a bit too charmed by the possessive pronoun that had slipped in front of his name.

“Good,” Éomer answered, reaching for Faramir’s breeches. “In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that my ambition for tonight is to make you scream my name so loud that everyone in Rohan will hear.”

Faramir blushed, toeing off his boots and stepping out of his breeches at Éomer’s silent urging. “I am afraid I do not have the lung capacity for such a feat.”

Éomer laughed, pleasantly surprised at Faramir’s little joke. “I shan’t hold it against you. That is, if you kiss me right now.”

Faramir surged forward as if he had taken Éomer’s words as an ultimatum rather than an invitation, smothering Éomer’s surprised laugh with his lips and pushing himself against the king, arms wrapping around his waist and hands kneading the strong muscles in his back, slipping under clothes and caressing heated skin.

Éomer was glad to return the affection, his arousal from the afternoon renewed tenfold, flaring up with bright urgency. It was the most natural thing to push Faramir down on the bed, cover him with his own body, ruck up his jerkin and shirt, touch his warm, pale skin and follow the fine red-blond hair down to the hard length of his erection. He kissed the tip of Faramir’s erection, the taste all the more appealing with how familiar it had become, and smirked when Faramir’s hips bucked up involuntarily.

“Easy there, Faramir, we already did that this afternoon, remember? It is my turn for some pleasure now,” Éomer teased, but still gave Faramir’s erection a few deliberate strokes, breathed in his musky scent as he licked the inside of his thigh.

“What… What would you like me to do, Éomer?” Faramir asked breathlessly. “I… would not call myself experienced, but I wish to please you.”

“And you shall, my sweet Faramir,” Éomer murmured. “You shall indeed.”

He moved up Faramir’s body, undoing the lateral row of buttons as he went, before pushing it off the other man’s shoulders. Even in the semi-dark Faramir couldn’t hide the wince, the sharply indrawn breath, and Éomer belatedly remembered that the Gondorian had been hurt, had taken several arrows, one of them to his shoulders. He kissed Faramir in apology and silently resolved to leave Faramir’s shirt in place unless the other man volunteered to take it off. He paid some attention to Faramir’s mouth, engaging in a playful battle with Faramir’s tongue that he won without question, and then suckled a mark into the hollow of his throat. A soft moan was his reward and he rubbed his fingers over Faramir’s right nipple, until it pebbled into a hard nub under his thin shirt. He found it with his mouth, worried it between his teeth and wrung another keen from his dear husband.

“I have been fantasising about this,” Éomer confessed, joining their mouths once more. “Lying awake at night, counting the days and imagining how you would feel under me, how you would smell and sound, all the things I wanted to do to you…”

He reached down beneath Faramir’s legs, fluttered his fingers teasingly along the hot length of his erection and then pressed his index finger against the tight ring of muscles, pushing in only slightly and tugging on the rim whenever he withdrew. Faramir threw his head back, pressing it into the mattress and exposing the pale column of his throat, the red mark Éomer had just left there.

“You were made for this,” Éomer commented, watching the muscles contract around his finger and gripping it tight for a moment. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are like this?”

Faramir shook his head, hands fisting into the bedspread as if he needed something to ground him to reality lest he be swept away by pleasure.

“Good. I am a jealous man, you see,” Éomer answered, placing a light bite on the inside of Faramir’s thigh and pushing his finger in a little further; Faramir grunted, shifting to try to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “And no-one will ever get to see you like this again. You are mine now.”

“Yes, Éomer,” Faramir whispered, reaching out to link his right hand with Éomer’s left. “I am yours.”

Éomer smirked, leading Faramir’s hand to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles. Faramir’s erection had wilted slightly at Éomer’s overly eager jab and as much as Éomer enjoyed teasing his husband, watching him squirm and feel his muscles quiver, he wanted this night and all that were to follow to be to their mutual pleasure. He had no interest in hurting Faramir and while some of his past lovers had relished in a hint of pain to augment the pleasure, there was time enough to review that possibility once they had built up a level of trust, of intimacy.

He released Faramir’s hand and sat up, pulling his vest and high-collared shirt over his head in one go. When he could see again, Faramir had sat up as well, his long legs folded under him, and was reaching out for him. Sword-worn hands caressed up his flanks and ghosted over his pectorals with reverent slowness, sending pleasurable shivers down his back. Faramir looked at him from under cinnamon lashes, then ducked his head to kiss a trail up his chest, criss-crossing over his heart before latching onto his neck, suckling a mark of his own beneath Éomer’s ear.

Éomer enjoyed Faramir’s attentions for a moment, but then buried his hands in soft strawberry blond curls and tugged him back. “Making your husband come in his pants does not constitute a proper wedding night, my dear Faramir,” he reproached him playfully, delighting, as always, in Faramir’s blush. “Lay back down. I will be right with you.”

He rolled off the bed, pushed his trousers off his legs and flung them in the general direction of the chair. He had put some unguent aside earlier, atop his dresser for just this occasion, and he forced himself to get it without looking at the bed and its occupant, knowing that the sight would mesmerise him and inevitably delay his plans.

When he did turn around, the small jar already unscrewed, Faramir had positioned himself on hands and knees, legs slightly splayed and his pert butt sticking out in a clear invitation. Éomer only had to kneel down behind him and sink home. But there was something wrong with the picture, something tugging at Éomer’s subconscious until he felt the tense line of Faramir’s muscles, the strain of his shoulders as he smoothed his hands over his lover’s back. He suppressed a sigh, smothered another by pressing his lips into the nape of Faramir’s neck. He could just see the outline of the bandage wrapping over Faramir’s shoulder and around his torso, felt the slight raise under his fingertips, and knew instinctively that Faramir would never admit to being in pain, being weak.

“I want you spread out under me,” he whispered in Faramir’s ear, grasping his wrists and forcing them forward until the other man got the idea. “I want to blanket you with my body.”

“As you wish,” Faramir agreed softly, stretching out on the covers under Éomer’s guidance. “Should I take off my shirt?”

“No, I like you like this,” Éomer decided, surprised to find it the truth. Half-clothed, the edge of his shirt falling over his buttocks, face hidden between his arms, Faramir looked like he had wanted to seduce his husband, had maybe even touched himself to thoughts of what they would do, but then drifted off to sleep for Éomer to find him like this, to wake him with kisses and more.

He palmed the smooth skin of Faramir’s buttocks, feeling the minute tightening of muscles, and urged Faramir to lift his hips so that he could slip a pillow beneath. He then gently compelled Faramir to bend his right leg and give him a little more space to settle in. He slicked his erection and three of his fingers, kissing Faramir’s neck, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, while he worked them into the other man, widening the snug passage piecemeal to soft sighs and sudden shifts until all three fingers were encased by Faramir’s tight heat. He pumped them in and out a few more times, then pulled out and positioned himself.

“Éomer…” Faramir whispered a silent plea in his voice, and Éomer obliged only too gladly, thrusting forward, filling Faramir’s emptiness, making him whole again.

Faramir jerked, burying his face in his pillow to muffle his pleasure as his hands curled into fists. Éomer rolled his hips, trying to find Faramir’s special spot, a satisfied grin spreading over his face when he heard a muted scream. He leaned down, sliding his hands along Faramir’s arms until he could grasp his wrists and cover his body with his own. The possibility of movement was limited like this, but there was something inertly gratifying in having Faramir so completely under his control, his own bodyweight pressing them ever closer until the lines between them blurred, until he was so deep within the other man that he thought he could feel his heartbeat, the cresting waves of his pleasure, the rippling approach of his orgasm.

He could feel his own climax building up, almost like an afterthought, the natural conclusion to their combined pleasure and he stilled deep inside Faramir, yielding walls gripping him even tighter, milking him of his essence as Faramir shifted restlessly beneath him, trying to create friction for himself. He would have dislodged Éomer if the young Rohirrim king had not stilled his hips with strong hands, accompanying the last spurts of semen with long, hard strokes into his husband.

When he was spent, he reluctantly pulled out, broke their connection and rolled onto his back beside Faramir. “Give me a moment and I will see to you,” he murmured, feeling post-coital lethargy beckoning him to give in.

Faramir cleared his throat, gathering his limbs under him. “That will not be necessary, thank you.”

“Ah.” Éomer grinned, imagining the blush on Faramir’s cheeks. “I am glad to hear that.”

The mattress jostled slightly as Faramir got up, and Éomer sleepily blinked his eyes open. A few of the candles had gone out and Faramir was merely a shadowy silhouette in front of the washbasin. Éomer closed his eyes again, waited for Faramir to approach him with a wet cloth and then tugged him back into bed, performing a cursory wipe-down before throwing the cloth aside and pulling Faramir against his chest.

“You are too restless, my dear husband,” he murmured, kissing Faramir’s brow and settling an arm around his waist. “You are supposed to be too tired to do anything but bask in the afterglow with me.”

“I do not like the sticky feeling,” Faramir admitted in a whisper, following Éomer’s lead and slinging an arm over his husband.

Éomer laughed, tracing Faramir’s spine through his shirt, letting his fingertips explore every dip and rise. “That is par for the course, I am afraid, but I do not mind you cleaning up if you end up back here with me.”

“Thank you, Éomer,” Faramir replied softly, pulling the covers up around them.

“It was my pleasure,” Éomer answered with a grin that slipped into a gentle smile at the peaceful way Faramir was snuggled up to him. “And welcome to Rohan, King Consort Faramir.”

* * *

_(1) Thank you. Until next we meet._


	3. The Sleep of Reason

_“The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters.”  
_ \- Francisco Goya

Éomer was an early riser by force of habit. Horses needed to be fed and watered, exercised and brushed down, and the stalls mucked out, and though there were a number of stable boys readily available to take care of these various tasks, no self-respecting Rohirrim would let others tend to his horse. When he awoke to the first rays of sunlight, Faramir was still asleep, curled up under a mountain of blankets and covers that Éomer couldn’t say with certainty had been there the night before.

He was careful not to jostle the bed or its other occupant as he got up, but nonetheless Faramir stirred and sat up only moments later, blinking sleepily but with quickly increasing alertness up at him.

Éomer changed course, kneeling down on Faramir’s side of the bed, and pressing a soft kiss to Faramir’s full lips. “Good morning, my dear husband. I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Faramir answered, leaning in to return the kiss. “I am sorry for hogging all the covers, Éomer.”

“It makes no matter as long as you were comfortable,” Éomer waved his apology away. “Would you like to accompany me to the stables before breakfast? Or you could wait for my return here.” He didn’t bother to suppress his leer nor to hide the way his eyes fixed on the dark red mark on Faramir’s throat. “We could work up an appetite together.”

Faramir swallowed, ducking his head to hide his blush and his dilating pupils. “I would like to see the stables, I think. If you will not mind the company.”

“Of course not,” Éomer said without hesitation, honestly pleased by Faramir’s quick agreement even if the alternative had been tempting. “I will show you the heart of my kingdom.”

Faramir returned his smile, his grey eyes sparkling with happiness under a fringe of tousled cinnamon hair, and swung his long legs over the side of the bed, revealing tantalising stretches of skin before he smoothly moved around Éomer to get dressed. As much as Éomer admired Faramir’s self-restraint, he was not thus inclined and captured the other man around the waist, pulling him in for a deep kiss and a leisurely caress over all the places he had laid claim to the night before. Faramir made a surprised sound, almost a squeak, tumbling against Éomer’s chest before regaining his balance. But he opened easily to the assault on his mouth and jolted delightfully when Éomer teased a finger down between his arse cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, ducking his head. “Still a bit… tender.”

“No worries.” Éomer smirked, releasing Faramir to get dressed. “You will learn to ride like a Rohirrim in no time. We will just have to practise... harder.”

Faramir’s movements stuttered and he dropped his shirt, much to Éomer’s amusement. He laughed softly, but turned around decisively, reaching for his own clothes. “Get dressed, Faramir, or we will not leave this room at all.”

When he turned around Faramir was fully dressed in a new shirt, the hair around his face slightly wet from where he must have given himself a quick wash, ready to go. Éomer wanted to peel him out of his clothes and smear his come into flushed skin, but he persevered, only feathering his hand lightly against Faramir’s back to lead him from the room.

They met a few people on their way, most of which offered congratulations or even stopped them for a chat and for a personal introduction to the new King Consort of Rohan. By the time they reached the stables, Éomer had had his fill of social interactions for one day and gladly slipped into Firefoot’s stall for a bit of peace and quiet.

He only emerged when Firefoot was taken care of and his guilty conscience at leaving Faramir to fend for himself reared its ugly head. He found Faramir in the tack room listening, for all intents and purposes, attentively to old Swithin, who was imparting on Faramir his whole life story while showing him the correct way of cleaning a saddle.

“Ah, I see how it is now: barely a day married and already you are stepping out on me,” Éomer joked, slinging a possessive arm around Faramir’s waist.

Swithin had once been a bear of a man, but the years had stooped him, drawn deep lines in his leathery skin and bleached his hair of colour. He chortled and smiled an almost toothless grin, speaking over Faramir’s sputtered protestations. “It’s not every day I get such a captive audience. Can’t blame me for being flattered, my lord.”

“I fear my husband is a very cruel man, to play with our emotions like this,” Éomer replied with mock chagrin.

“Aye, I daresay you’ll have your hands full with this one,” Swithin answered with another broad grin. “Better keep your eyes on him.”

“I intend to,” Éomer assured him, pulling Faramir along with him.

“I was not... and I would not,” Faramir protested, not for the first time. “I apologise if my behaviour reflected badly on you, but I just... I apologise.”

Éomer laughed, tugging Faramir into his side and pressing a kiss to his temple. “You are too naive, Faramir, and too kind, but I was never in doubt about your faithfulness. Let us get some breakfast.”

Faramir seemed to relax and for a moment Éomer wondered if it was too soon for jokes of this manner, if maybe Gondorian humour did not extend to teasing. But he dismissed the thought. From what he had gathered Faramir had spent most of his adult life guarding remote outposts in Ithilien, far from the amenities of city life, the social constraints of civilisation or the delicate ears of high-born ladies. This could hardly have been the worst ribbing he ever encountered.

And in any event, he had cleared the air and Faramir was happy, even joyful during breakfast, chatting with their guests and laughing freely at the antics of the two hobbits who had delayed their journey home to attend their wedding. It had been decided that Frodo and Sam would travel ahead, since their pace would be moderate to slow due to the strains their adventures had left on their bodies, while Pippin and Merry planned to visit friends along the way and meet up with the other two hobbits in Rivendell.

There was no doubt whose guests they were, Éomer mused. The hobbits were their usual talkative selves, regaling their audience with increasingly absurd tales and bursts of song while outrageous amounts of food wandered into their bellies. But there was something about the way they angled their tiny bodies, keeping Faramir in their sights, making sure they had his attention that told Éomer whose ear they were vying for. And as the other guests fluctuated around them, Faramir stayed seated next to Pippin, a gentle smile on his lips as the two hobbits pulled him into yet another conversation.

“I am glad to see Faramir’s spirits lifted,” Aragorn commented softly, his gaze also focused on the young steward.

Éomer nodded but then paused in thought. “Is there a reason why Faramir’s spirits needed lifting?”

Aragorn took a sip of his drink. “Faramir asked that we detour to where Boromir died so that he might pay his last respects. I did not have it in me to deny his request, but I fear it may have opened barely healed wounds. He hardly spoke for the rest of our journey.”

Éomer made a small sound of surprise, trying to wrestle with the rush of guilt as his own eagerness the day before suddenly appeared in a less than flattering light. Had he been so blinded by his own desires that he had missed Faramir’s grief?

“But I do think his serenity can be attributed to more than just the company of our two hobbits,” Aragorn replied, resting his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “I have every faith that you will be good for him – and he for you. Just as long as you remember that there are two people in this marriage.”

“Of course,” Éomer agreed, taking a swallow to wet his suddenly dry throat and have a moment longer to collect his thoughts, to remember who he was. “I shall thank you for your advice, King Elessar, as long as you remember that there are in fact **only** two people in this marriage.”

He made a conscious decision to straighten his posture, trying to remind himself that as a king he could still accept advice, but not reproach.

“Of course, you are right, my friend,” Aragorn agreed graciously. “And I do think I will have some more of that cake before we set out again. It is a long journey after all and I have grown accustomed to regular meals – hazards of travelling with hobbits.”

Éomer gave a short laugh, not overly amused but recognising Aragorn’s retreat as the peace offering it was. “So I have heard. If you will excuse me, I think I need to attend to my husband.”

He ignored Aragorn’s smirk, getting up and quickly striding over to where Faramir was seated, easily plucking the widely gesticulating Merry up and depositing him one seat over, so that he could sit down next to his husband.

“This is the best seat in the hall, Esquire Merry,” he joked, ruffling the hobbit’s curly hair and earning himself another shout of protest and a good-natured grin. “By rights you should offer it to your king.”

“But I was just telling Faramir about how Boromir saved us in the Mines of Moria!” Merry argued. “This is no time for interruptions!”

“Oh, please, do continue,” Éomer said, absently tracing the veins in Faramir’s exposed forearm, feeling his pulse jump erratically; he smiled. “Boromir and I used to meet up when we were both patrolling our borders, ride together for a day or two and measure our strengths. Maybe I can offer some stories to swap as well.”

Faramir turned to him, such a look of open eagerness on his face that Éomer forgot to breathe for a moment. If he was lucky, very lucky he would one day earn this look for being himself, for being a good king, a good friend, a good lover, a good husband, and not for the memories of Faramir’s dead brother he might be able to share. That was something to work toward, at least. He lifted Faramir’s hand and pressed a kiss to his wrist.

Merry and Pippin were more welcoming after that as well and launched back into their story, describing dark, echoing halls, crumbling bridges, drums, goblins, trolls and a creature of fire that pulled Gandalf the Grey into the abyss. He allowed himself to be drawn into the story, absently caressing Faramir’s forearm, and after the hobbits had finished their story, he shared one of his own, telling his captive audience about the time Boromir had come to his aid against a band of orcs that had crossed the Anduin and breached their borders, surprising their small patrol and threatening to overrun them if Boromir and his men had not arrived in time. He had been young and inexperienced then, not yet marshal, barely a captain, and in awe of the handsome and brave steward-prince, who had shown no fear or hesitation, only great courage and leadership.

“Thank you,” Faramir murmured after he had finished his story and Merry and Pippin had drifted off to the next table that still held some edible items. “This means a lot to me.”

Éomer was suitably charmed when Faramir pressed his lips to the corner of his mouth, but then turned his head a fraction further in Faramir’s direction to better realign their mouths. He cherished the small surprised sound and the velvety lips under his for a moment, caressing his stubbled cheeks.

“It is no hardship to talk about your brother. I always found much to admire about him,” he finally answered. “That quality seems to run in the family.”

Instead of the blush Éomer had expected, Faramir turned away abruptly, disengaging completely from his touch. “If he is the measure of your expectations, I fear you will be disappointed. I still have to discuss some things with King Elessar before his return to Gondor. If you will excuse me.”

Éomer looked after his young husband, trying to discern if this was just Faramir’s usual modesty or if maybe there was more to his sudden withdrawal, but he knew too little about Faramir to come to a conclusion. Hazards of marrying for political reasons. He heaved a deep breath, held it for a moment and released it slowly. They still had time, the rest of their life, to figure out everything that made them who they were. For now he would heed Aragorn’s advice and refrain from bringing up Faramir’s dead relatives.

* * *

He saw Faramir only fleetingly for the rest of the day. Faramir spent most of it deep in discussion with Aragorn, pouring over maps and reports and letters that seemed to contain all manner of information pertaining to the kingdom and the position Faramir was leaving behind. When Aragorn and his men took their leave around noon, they stood together on the parapet for a long time afterwards, each dwelling on their own thoughts. But while Éomer was thinking of the future, their lives together and the many ways in which he was looking forward to ravishing his husband, Faramir’s expression suggested darker thoughts.

Éomer studied him for a while, the sadness and melancholy in his eyes against the ramrod straight line of his back. “Rohan is your home now, but that does not mean that Gondor is lost to you.”

He slid an arm around Faramir’s waist, pulling gently until he had his husband in a loose embrace. “You must think me ungrateful.”

“Not at all,” Éomer replied, pressing a short kiss to tempting lips. “This is not the future either of us expected growing up. I never expected nor wanted to be king and marriage was not something I considered for myself. But we will make the most of it, will we not?”

“Of course,” Faramir answered readily with a smile that looked only slightly forced. “I am sure you will be a great king.”

“And a great husband, I hope.” Éomer grinned, sliding one of his hands down Faramir’s back and caressing the swell of his buttocks suggestively. “I will have you know that I take my marital duties very seriously.”

Faramir blushed bright red, stuttering out an answer in the affirmative, and Éomer laughed, claiming Faramir’s lips in another kiss.

Someone cleared their throat, startling them apart. “My lord, I am sorry to interrupt but the council is ready to begin,” it was Ealraed, who was much too old and dignified to be scandalised by their behaviour or bat more than one eyelash. It probably wasn’t the most compromising position he had ever caught Éomer in, if he was being honest. But from the colour of Faramir’s cheeks, the other man was used to being a lot more discreet.

He sighed. “We will join you presently. Please make sure Elfhelm attends as well. I shall like his opinion on who should become Third Marshal.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ealraed agreed, giving a small bow before leaving them alone again.

“I should not have kept you so long,” Faramir said, chagrined. “Please do not delay further on my account. I am sure I can find some way to be useful and out of the way so that you can get back to your work.”

Éomer rolled his eyes, taking Faramir by the wrist once more and tugging him along. “You are King Consort, Faramir, out of the way is the last thing I want you to be. Attending these boring meetings with me and making all these dry matters of state seem even slightly more palatable is exactly how you can be useful to me and this kingdom. Aragorn suggested that you have a talent for these things.”

“He is too kind,” Faramir said, ducking his head.

“And I do not believe that for a second,” Éomer replied with a gentle smile, thinking about what he had seen today and the way everyone in Gondor had had at least one praising word for their young steward. “And in any case, you are the reason for this meeting. I need to introduce you officially as my husband, their sovereign.”

“Oh.” Faramir bit his lip. “I… I suppose that part has not quite registered yet.”

Éomer laughed, pulling Faramir into a side corridor because he just had to kiss him. “Believe me, I know the feeling.” He pressed the other man against a wall, nipping his bottom lip and then sucking it into his mouth. “How about we take the edge of a little?”

“We will be late,” Faramir said, sliding a little lower and moaning into Éomer’s kiss.

“I am king. They will be early,” Éomer murmured between heated kisses, grappling at Faramir’s shirt to pull it out of his trousers and be able to caress the smooth skin of his belly.

“Someone might see us,” Faramir protested weakly even as he allowed Éomer to press a thigh between his legs.

“They will see a newly-wed couple that cannot keep their hands off each other,” Éomer murmured, eliciting a groan from his young husband. “Not an impression I mind giving.”

“Our quarters are not too far,” Faramir still protested, his hands flat against Éomer’s chest with notable pressure but not enough force to actually push him away. “I would feel better if we were not quite so exposed, Éomer.”

The young king rolled his eyes, sliding one hand around Faramir’s hip and down past the waist of his trousers, over the gentle swell of his buttock and into the secret valley. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear husband, and I simply cannot wait that long.”

Faramir’s muscles jumped under his touch and his eyes were dark and wide. “I… could pleasure you with my mouth?”

Faramir’s words conjured up a mental picture that was all too arousing and Éomer groaned, pressing the full length of his body against Faramir’s.

“You have the most enticing ideas, my dear Faramir,” he whispered in his husband’s ear, worrying the lobe gently between his teeth before drawing back.

He slid his hand out of Faramir’s pants, higher up to the small of his back, and pulled the other hand out from underneath his shirt to trace Faramir’s soft pink lips with his index finger. He could just imagine them wrapped around his manhood, stretched wide to accommodate his girth, Faramir’s hands on his hips, his own hands buried in strawberry blonde curls.

“Please, Éomer,” Faramir whispered, his lips caressing Éomer’s finger.

“How could I resist?” Éomer answered, spinning them around so that he was the one leaning against the wall, anticipating that he might need the support soon. “I am all yours.”

Faramir’s chest expanded with a deep breath before he gracefully sank to his knees. “I do not know that I will be very good at this. You must tell me if I do it wrong.”

Éomer carded his fingers through Faramir’s soft curls, brushing them away from his face so that he could better look at him. “Just shield your teeth and I am sure I will enjoy it,” he murmured encouragingly, using his free hand to unlace his trousers.

Faramir nodded, exhaling deeply once more, and gently slipped Éomer's erection free. He wrapped it loosely in his fist, giving it a few leisurely strokes, and Éomer hastened to brace himself against the wall, lest his legs give out unexpectedly. Faramir looked up at him with a question in his eyes and Éomer was quick to reassure him with a nod and a guiding hand at the back of his skull.

As much as the sight of Faramir on his knees in front of him turned him on, he couldn't stop his eyes from fluttering shut as his erection was engulfed in warm wetness. He groaned, pressing his head back against the stone wall, and enjoyed the gentle suction, the teasing licks of an agile tongue and the careful hands that fondled his balls.

In truth, Faramir's ministrations were more earnest than enthusiastic, more tentative than skilled, and so he tightened his grip in Faramir's hair, silken strands wrapped around his fingers, and gently thrust himself into the moist cavern. Faramir sputtered, tried to pull back, but didn't break Éomer's light hold. His eyes snapped up to meet the king's.

"Just relax. I will not go too far," Éomer coached, rubbing his thumb over Faramir's cheek where the head of his erection was making a bump, moaning at the barely-there sensation ghosting over his own manhood.

He waited until Faramir acquiesced, releasing his grip on Éomer's hips, before he set an easy rhythm, in and out, not so far as to choke his lover but enough to create a little more friction. After a few strokes, Faramir seemed to adjust, swallowing and sucking around his erection, his tongue caressing the underside. The sensation was exquisite. Hot and wet and tight. Having this proud son of Gondor kneeling at his feet, looking up at him with growing devotion, and knowing that Faramir was irrevocably his, that no-one would ever lay claim to him again, made it all the more precious.

His orgasm built steadily, mounting ever higher until it crashed through the stronghold of his will, like an army of orcs, and he tightened his hold on Faramir's hair, pushed in as far as he had allowed himself to go. Faramir choked, scrambled at Éomer's hands to try to free himself, but Éomer held fast, forcing the other man to do his best to swallow.

When his senses returned to him, he gradually relaxed his hands, watched through half-lidded eyes as Faramir pulled back, his lips red and stretched, some of his own semen dribbling from the corner of that sweet mouth, down his chin and neck. Faramir coughed, wiping his face with shaking hands and curling his back.

Éomer tucked himself back into his trousers before he sank gracefully to his knees next to Faramir to take him into his arms, rubbing soothing circles into his abused scalp. "That was inconsiderate and selfish of me. Please forgive me."

Faramir took a deep breath, cleared his throat. "I did not expect it, but it is no matter. There is nothing to forgive as long as you enjoyed yourself."

Éomer grinned, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Faramir's abused lips, tasting himself. "Very much so, thank you. Would you like me to return the favour?"

"Perhaps that is something best saved for a later time," Faramir murmured, getting to his feet and extending his hand to Éomer. "Shall we attend the council now?"

Éomer grasped Faramir's hand and pulled himself up. They took a moment to right their clothing and Éomer used the excuse of straightening Faramir’s shirt to slide his hands over warm, strong muscles. He then gave the other man a smile and a nod and another kiss just because he could, but then lead them to the Golden Hall where the council convened.

* * *

“So, to sum up, there is no shortage of wood nor a shortage of skilled labour as a delegation of dwarves and men from the Erebor and Esgaroth are expected to arrive within days to support the rebuilding efforts in the Westfold?” Éomer asked, looking down at Lord Guthorm, who had intercepted his path to the stables, and wondered when this day would finally be over. “Then what, pray tell, is the problem?”

“Problem, my lord?” Guthorm asked, fussily adjusting his belt over his rotund middle. “There is no problem. Lord Faramir has been very circumspect in making sure we have the materials and manpower needed to rebuild the burnt down villages without upsetting the ents of the Fangorn further. As I understand it, the elves of Lothlórien have agreed to plant two new trees for every tree felled. No, I think everything is well in hand, my lord.”

“I see,” Éomer said, though he wasn’t quite sure he did. “So you came to tell me how pleased you are?”

“Of course.” Guthorm nodded eagerly. “I am sure you are aware that your lord husband is a very modest man, my lord, and praise seems to… discomfit him. But I feel his efforts should not go unacknowledged.”

“I see,” Éomer repeated, this time with more conviction. “Thank you for telling me. I will make sure Faramir is appropriately rewarded.” He extended his hand and clasped the older man’s arm in farewell before directing himself not to the stables, but instead to the previously empty room Faramir had claimed as his study.

He rapped his knuckles against the door, but didn’t wait for a reply before he pushed it open. He smiled as Faramir slowly straightened from his bowed position over his crowded desk, seemingly reluctant to detach himself from what he had been reading. He entered easily, pulling the door closed behind him and engaging the lock.

“Am I interrupting?” Éomer asked, knowing that he was, but counting on Faramir’s politeness to garner him the answer he wanted to hear.

“Of course not,” Faramir answered readily with a welcoming smile of his own. “I have a tendency of losing track of time - are we to have supper already?”

“It is not that time yet, no, though I have worked up quite an appetite.” He sauntered over to his husband, sliding a hand around his neck and tilting his head up for a demanding kiss. “And there is only one thing that can sate my hunger.”

Faramir, predictably, blushed, allowing his kisses and increasingly daring touches for a while, but then gently pushed him away, getting up from his chair so that he could bring distance between them. “I am flattered, truly, but I would prefer to keep these matters in our own quarters, where we can be sure to remain undisturbed.”

Éomer rolled his eyes, pressing himself back into Faramir’s personal space and crowding between his legs when Faramir’s retreat was stopped by the desk at his back. “The door is locked and I just had a very interesting conversation with Lord Guthorm about all your hard work in the last fortnight. He thinks you deserve a reward and I happen to agree.”

“A reward?” Faramir questioned, but obligingly tilted his head to accommodate Éomer’s eager lips. “What… ah…”

Éomer laughed softly. “I daresay this is not quite the reward he had in mind, but after all, you are my husband and it is up to me to decide how to reward you properly… or improperly as the case may be.”

“That is very… thoughtful, Éomer,” Faramir said between gasps. “But…”

“Just enjoy,” Éomer interrupted him before silencing him with a kiss, rubbing his thumbs soothingly over Faramir’s flushed cheeks.

Faramir subsided, as always. Éomer was used to that first moment of hesitation by now, that initial reluctance and blushing embarrassment as if Faramir still thought they were doing something scandalous, forbidden, by engaging in marital intercourse. He found it only slightly annoying, still a little charming, and had learned to just silence Faramir’s half-hearted protests with kisses and hands caressing in strategic places.

He slipped one hand under Faramir’s tunic, following the sculpted muscles and then pinching one of the pert nipples. Faramir jerked, slipping a little lower as if his knees had momentarily refused service before catching himself on the desk. Éomer smirked, rubbing his thigh against Faramir’s groin and keeping him pinned as he unlaced both their trousers, freeing their erections and taking them in hand. He caught Faramir’s soft sigh with another kiss, sucking on his lower lip and pulling it into his mouth.

Faramir’s pale eyes fluttered close as he leant back more comfortably on the desk and spread his legs further. He stroked along Faramir’s arms, compelling him to rest his back against the smooth wood desk. Éomer anchored him with a hand in his cinnamon curls as he ravished his handsome husband and nipped bites along his collarbone. He pulled back a moment to get the vial of saddle oil from his pocket and to coat his fingers before finding Faramir’s entrance and pressing one digit past the tight sphincter.

He worked his finger in and out slowly, still kissing Faramir lazily as he added a second and third finger. When he deemed Faramir suitably stretched, he pulled back.

“You are beautiful,” Éomer murmured, as he slicked his proud erection with the remaining oil on his fingers and his own precome. “I cannot wait to be inside you. You are always so tight and hot.”

He looked down at the other man when he received no answer, surprised to find Faramir’s eyes were squeezed shut, his head turned to the side. “Faramir? What is it?”

He rubbed circles on the Gondorian’s chest, feeling the racing heartbeat beneath his palm and noting that Faramir’s erection had flagged completely.

“I am sorry… I…” Faramir heaved a deep breath. “I should turn around so that you can…”

He scrambled for purchase on the edge of the desk, pulling himself upright and twisting out from beneath Éomer, who was too stunned to react, couldn’t understand what was happening, why Faramir wouldn’t just tell him what had made him so tense. Then Faramir braced himself against the desk, lowering his head until his soft curls brushed against the desk’s surface.

“You can do it now. Put it in me,” Faramir whispered, chancing a brief glance at the king when Éomer still didn’t move.

“What…” Éomer didn’t know how to finish his question.

He could still see Faramir’s limp manhood, not even slightly aroused, while Faramir was braced in the exact same way as some days prior in their chambers, and suddenly he felt sick. He took a hasty step back, almost tripping over the trousers around his ankles before he roughly jerked them up and fled.

 


	4. The Voice Under All Silences

_"Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun more last than star."_  
\- E. E. Cummings

Éomer stared blankly at his sister's swollen stomach, his hands entwined in tight knots, fingers pressing harshly against knuckles and fine bones as if to grind them to dust. As long as he concentrated on Éowyn's extended waistline, the way her dress stretched over her belly, he could hold other images at bay.

"Éomer," his sister's voice sounded as if through a fog. "You are truly starting to scare me. Please talk to me."

He still felt sick and his mouth tasted of vomit. He thought he might have thrown up after leaving that room – leaving Faramir. He bit the inside of his cheek to contain a scream.

"Is… Do you think Faramir is happy here?" he finally asked. He didn't know what the answer could possibly change, how it could reverse the terrible realisation he was slowly coming to.

Éowyn's brow furrowed. "I do not think he is unhappy, if that is what you are worried about. He does not like to talk about it, of course, but I know he is still affected by the Black Breath. I think that is why he likes to keep busy, to feel like he is moving past the war." She smiled slightly, stroking her belly. "It feels good to be creating something."

Any other time, Éomer would have asked about her health, but his thoughts were still stuck on orbit around Faramir, his mind scuttling away whenever he came too close to the truth. Now, Éowyn's words had added even more fodder for his guilty conscience. He hadn't thought about the Nazgûl in relation to Faramir - hadn't worried about nightmares or depression because Faramir was always giving him that gentle, welcoming smile, asking about his day or offering to rub his shoulders.

And then. They had sex often, he supposed. Most every evening Éomer would lay Faramir out on the bed and bury himself in that tight, sweet body or he would slide to his knees after their midday meal and drink his dessert directly from the source. Faramir seldom initiated more than a kiss, but then he had always assumed that Faramir was just shy, easily embarrassed, a little prudish. Faramir had also never shown any interest in being the more active partner and thus Éomer had taken him, from behind, in the dark, interpreting his hitched breaths and muffled keens as sounds of pleasure, his jerks and rippling muscles as encouragement. But…

He stood up abruptly, ignored Éowyn's questioning looks as he brushed a hasty kiss over her cheek, and then left to confront his fears.

* * *

He found Faramir pacing in their quarters, though the other man stopped as soon as he entered and turned to face him, his hands clasped behind his back and his spine rigid. He looked composed but strained, equally ready for battle as for surrender. Éomer wondered when he had become the enemy.

"Faramir," he greeted him, but then didn't know how to continue.

"I am sorry, but if you allow it I will make it up to you," Faramir took the words out of his mouth.

"Make what up to me?" he asked.

Faramir seemed thrown by the question for a moment, but then answered as if by rote. "I am a failure, a constant disappointment and you deserve a better husband."

"That is not the problem." He clenched his hands at his side at the irrational rage that welled up in him. "You allowed me to take advantage of you, to coerce you into acts you evidently did not enjoy. You turned me into a man who hurts his husband, a... a rapist, a monster."

Faramir obediently reiterated his apology and Éomer felt sick to his stomach, wishing he could take back those thoughtless, angry words and bite off his own tongue. None of this was Faramir's fault. How could it be, when Faramir had thought he had no choice?

"Why did you not tell me? Did you not think I would stop?" he asked, pleaded.

"I did not know you wanted to stop," Faramir answered, his light brows furrowed in confusion. "I thought you enjoyed it."

Éomer felt his breath catch in his throat, another wave of nausea snaking up in his throat. "You thought I enjoyed hurting you? Is that the impression I gave you?"

"You have been very good to me," Faramir said with a slight shake of his head. "You have been very forgiving of my faults."

"Faramir, this not your fault and... None of this is your fault." Éomer ran a hand through his long blond hair. "Can you tell me, did I hurt you today or any of the other times we… I initiated intercourse?"

Faramir sank down on the bed, his hands neatly folded in his lap. "That is a very harsh description."

"Then let me put it another way: Did you enjoy what I was doing to you?" Éomer insisted, sitting down next to Faramir but making sure to leave ample distance between them.

"What does that matter?" Faramir asked, timidly reaching for his hand. "I am your husband. It is my marital duty, is it not?"

Éomer suddenly remembered Faramir's insistence on wanting to please him, his timid admission that he lacked experience. "You are my husband, and I am yours. But our martial duties do not include suffering at the hands of the other, through intercourse or otherwise."

"I am sorry," Faramir murmured, ducking his head.

"Your apology was unnecessary the first time," Éomer pointed out before sighing deeply. "I am the one at fault here and I apologise for however much that is worth. And I had no right to shout at you, to lay the blame at your feet when I should have made sure you consented fully to my attentions."

"But I do," Faramir protested. "I swear I do. You did not force me or… or rape me. We are married; I consented."

"When you agreed to marry me it did not give me blanket permission to do as I please with you!" Éomer insisted, squeezing Faramir's hand to make him look up. "I vowed to honour and protect you. Do you feel like I did? Do you feel honoured, protected?"

"I feel like your husband." Faramir looked pleadingly at him. "You honoured me by inviting me into your family. You protected me from disgrace and you gave me a new home, a new purpose. I will never be able to repay you for your kindness."

"Is that what you are trying to do?" Éomer asked, coldness spreading through his veins even as his voice remained gentle.

"You made it clear from the beginning that intercourse was an important part of our agreement," Faramir answered. "It is only right that I try to satisfy your needs. I know I lack expertise, but I will learn to be a better husband."

Éomer had to curb his violent impulses, against himself and against his dear husband. It was evident that Faramir saw no wrong in letting himself be hurt to supposedly please his husband, and while Éomer's own callous behaviour had certainly contributed to that, he was equally sure that he was not the only one who had done damage to Faramir's soul. Aragorn had tried to warn him about Faramir's hidden fragility, he realised now. It didn't excuse his lack of care in handling his husband, his lack of attention to Faramir's needs.

"Can you tell me about what experience you did have? Before our marriage?"

The other man bit his lips. "I… Boromir dared me to kiss one of the maids when I was twelve."

"A kiss?" Éomer asked, getting up abruptly. "Is that all you did?"

Faramir blushed bright red. "In truth, I ducked out. It did not seem fair to risk her reputation on a lark."

Éomer almost laughed at the predictability of Faramir's justification, feeling an unexpected alacrity at how absurd it was to see Faramir so concerned for the wellbeing of some unknown woman when he couldn't even grasp the concept of protecting himself from unwanted advances.

"So no kiss and no experience beyond that?" Éomer summed up and Faramir nodded timidly. "Then you must have assumed that it was supposed to be like this? That is was normal for me to hurt you?"

"You did not hurt me," Faramir said immediately, seemingly before even processing Éomer's words.

"Please answer the question, Faramir. I promise I will not be angry."

"I… yes. Just because I did not engage in these activities myself, it does not mean that I am totally ignorant. I was given to understand that some discomfort is to be expected and that the experience of pain is not unusual. You have been very gentle with me."

"From where did you receive this information?" Éomer asked, making sure to keep his voice soft and his stance non-confrontational.

"I read books and with how long we often stayed in Ithilien it was not uncommon for some of the men to seek each other's company," Faramir answered almost defensively.

Éomer could just imagine what lewd comments Faramir might have heard from his rangers and given the amount of books Faramir liked to read, it was only a matter of time until he found one that fit his experiences.

"As I have a little more practical experience, allow me to give you my view on the situation, all right?" Éomer asked, taking a few measured steps to gather his thoughts. "Intercourse between two men can be painful – there is no natural lubrication, you understand, and on the road or in the heat of the moment it might be that other things take precedence over careful preparation."

"You used saddle oil," Faramir pointed out.

Éomer inclined his head in agreement. "I did. But if I had known that you had no experience… I would have made a point of preparing you more thoroughly. As I did not do that, you – quite naturally - tensed up at the unfamiliar sensation and your muscles fought against the penetration, making it even more uncomfortable and painful for you."

Faramir shook his head unwillingly. "The men I patrolled with, those who did something like this, I mean, they did not seem to mind being sore the next day. And I do not, either."

"A little soreness can be a reminder of a good time," Éomer agreed. "But if you did not enjoy it, it is only painful and I do not want that for you, Faramir."

"Oh," Faramir ducked his head. "What do you want?"

Éomer was tempted to return the question, but could already guess that it would not garner any viable answer.

"There is no excuse for what I did to you. I took advantage of your inexperience and your desire to please and I am deeply sorry that I led you to believe that intercourse was a duty to endure rather than pleasure shared. I will understand if you want to be left in peace from now on." He raised a hand to silence Faramir's immediate objection. "I want you to know that you always have that option, whether you come to that decision today or ten years from now."

"What other options are there?" Faramir asked eagerly.

"I am not a man of words, Faramir, and my apologies can be little more than a drop of saddle oil on a torn stirrup. But if you will allow it, I would like the chance to be a better husband, to repent with actions rather than words."

"I…" Faramir broke off and Éomer stepped in, "You should think about it. Would you like me to give you some space?"

"You have given me a lot to think about," Faramir admitted. "Do you think you could just hold me for a while? If it is not too much of an imposition."

"I would be glad to, truly, but I am not sure you are asking for the right reasons," Éomer hedged, watching the resignation spread over Faramir's face with a hollow feeling in his gut. "I should go."

"As you wish, my lord," Faramir answered woodenly. "If it pleases you, I would like to see you for breakfast tomorrow."

Éomer inclined his head, wanting to reach out to his husband, gather him in his arms and forget that anything had ever gone amiss between them. Instead he turned to the door and left to find a quarter for the night.

* * *

He woke earlier than usual. The guest quarters he had retired to the night before felt unfamiliar and he missed Faramir's warm weight next to him, the soft sound of his breathing. What a sweet lie he had told himself! While he had lived in married bliss, Faramir had lived in a nightmare.

But self-recriminations would help no-one, he reminded himself. For now, he could only do as Faramir had asked and meet him for breakfast. They usually took their first meal in the Golden Hall, but today he thought it best not to get sidetracked by politics or court intrigue. He took a moment to straighten his clothes and freshen his face with a bit of water before he slipped from the guest chambers and down to the kitchens where he arranged for breakfast to be brought up to their chambers.

But it was early yet and if Faramir was still asleep, he didn't intend to disturb his rest. Instead he gathered some fresh clothes from the washer women and left to take a quick bath. The bathhouse was built around a natural hot spring, the water collecting in several large pools and elvish crystals making them glow from within. He nodded in greeting at the few riders that were already in the water but selected a smaller pool to the side as he had no mind for idle conversation and didn't intend to spend more time than necessary.

He had a quick soak, scrubbed himself thoroughly and then dried off to get dressed in his fresh set of clothes. He tied his wet hair at the top of his head to get it away from his nape, wished the other men a good day and then made his way back to their rooms where he found Faramir awake and dressed, the fine hair around his face still slightly wet. Éomer had noticed a slight chill in the air, but Faramir had bundled himself in thick clothes, layering a jerkin lined with sheep skin over a leather tunic and shirt. Somehow, Éomer thought, it would have been less conspicuous if he had donned full armour.

"Good morning," Éomer greeted, offering Faramir a gentle smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," Faramir said, still pondering the table. "I was not sure I would see you today."

Éomer pulled out a chair for Faramir. "I am happy to break my fast with you, Faramir. If you are ready for that."

"Oh, yes, of course," Faramir murmured. "I am sorry."

"Please stop apologising," Éomer asked, serving Faramir some of the fresh bread.

"Oh," Faramir said then visibly bit his tongue. "I feel like I should, though. I upset you and I do not quite know why."

"You do not understand why I am upset?" Éomer questioned, striving for an even tone.

Faramir took a careful bite, looking down at his plate instead of looking at Éomer. "You thought you had raped me. And you are an honourable man. But…"

"But?" Éomer asked, though he wanted to refute Faramir's assessment.

"But I am not a maiden! I know I am not as good a swordfighter as Boromir was, or as fearless a leader, but I can stand up for myself; I can defend myself and I am not some damsel in distress that needs to be rescued or protected!" Faramir burst out and Éomer was honestly relieved to see some fire return to his meek little husband. "And frankly, I do not appreciate the insinuation that I do not know my own mind and cannot make my own decisions, like I am some hapless child that needs to be taken by hand and does not understand what is happening… my lord."

Éomer reached out to squeeze Faramir's hand. "That was certainly not my intention. I apologise."

"It is all right," Faramir murmured, ducking his head once more. "I was out of line."

"I think you spoke your mind. Now if you can tell me with the same honesty and conviction that you feel my equal in this marriage, comfortable with telling me if you would like to change something about our relationship - then I really have no reason to worry, do I?"

Faramir's fingers, long and graceful, played along the edge of his plate in a nervous flutter. "You are my king and I am your subject. How could I ever be your equal?" he finally asked.

"I am your husband first," Éomer insisted more harshly than he should have if Faramir jerking into uprightness was any indication; he sighed quietly. "I was never meant to be king. I never wanted to be king. Least of all with my husband."

Faramir seemed fixated on if not actually interested in his breakfast and didn't answer. Éomer sighed again, reached out to recapture Faramir's hand. "When my cousin Théodred was sixteen, he was sweet on one of the maids." He smiled softly when Faramir looked up in surprise. "Théodred… he was not shy about anything, least of all his affections, and he set about wooing her with all the impetuous eagerness of a first-time suitor. Flowers, picnics, jewellery… and she seemed receptive, or so he thought. Until her fiancé petitioned the king to please stop his son from molesting his soon-to-be wife."

"That is…"

"It was horrible," Éomer finished for him. "Théodred apologised, of course, but how can you make up for something like that? The couple moved to Snowbourn immediately after the wedding and Théodred took great pains never to come near her again."

"Why are you telling me this?" Faramir demanded. "It is horrible, as you said. But I do not see what bearing it has on our situation."

"Do you not?" Éomer asked in disbelief. "Faramir... you know what parallel I am trying to draw." He raised a hand to silence Faramir's immediate protest. "This incident occurred not because she was a girl, but because she felt beholden to Théodred and did not dare refuse his advances. Would you dare refuse me, Faramir? Did you think you had a choice in this marriage?"

"I was not forced to marry you," Faramir insisted stubbornly. "And I never wanted to refuse you. I consider it an honour to serve my king in whatever he requires of me."

Éomer wanted to bang his head against the table in frustration. "I do not require… Théodred was blinded by love and desire and maybe that is some excuse, but he always warned me about making the same mistake - I can imagine perfectly well what he would have to say about this and I can assure you he would be far less forgiving than you seem to be."

"There is nothing to forgive," Faramir replied instantly. "I made a choice and I stand by it."

"Would Boromir agree with you? If he knew how I had treated his little brother, would he just smile and clap me on the back and be happy to leave you in my care?" Éomer asked and Faramir's shattered expression told him that he had finally found the right approach. "He would not, would he?"

It was becoming evident that Faramir had no qualms about what had happened between them and a part of Éomer wanted to demand who had taught him to care so little for himself. But one thing he was equally certain of was that Boromir had loved his brother with his whole being. The open admiration and all-encompassing affection with which he had talked about Faramir had left little doubt about that.

Faramir's back bowed, as if finally bending under the tremendous burden he had carried for months, maybe for years, and he hid his face between his hands, uneven breaths belying the tears he tried to hide. Éomer reacted instinctively, perching awkwardly on the arm of Faramir's chair and wrapping himself around the young Gondorian, smoothing his hand over the heaving back and crooning soft nonsense into his ear.

After a while, Faramir started to calm down, straightening slightly and pulling out of Éomer's arms with an embarrassed, watery smile. "I am sorry for my lack of composure. It is just that I miss him."

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," Éomer murmured, sliding back into his own seat to give Faramir the space he seemed to need right now. "Not a day goes by that I do not wish my uncle and cousin were still alive, that more of my men had survived this wretched war. There is no way to change the past, but we can keep them alive in our thoughts and memories."

Faramir sucked in a breath then released it in a shuddery exhale. "Boromir… he was very protective of me. My father often told him to stop coddling me."

"I am not an expert on fathers, but I understand that it often falls to them to instil a sense of righteousness and duty in their offspring," Éomer said carefully, not wanting to upset Faramir further by getting into a debate about Denethor's good judgement or lack thereof. "That is however not within the purview of a husband. We are both men grown, Faramir; it is not up to me to discipline you or dictate your thoughts and actions. I asked after your brother because I know about a big brother's love for his younger sibling." He sent Faramir a small smile. "We are quite protective, almost manic in our wish to see our siblings happy and safe."

"I am not… You cannot replace him," Faramir said, a hard edge to his normally soft intonation. "I do not want you to."

"That is not my intention, I promise you," Éomer replied, meeting Faramir's wary gaze. "But I still want the same things for you, your happiness and safety, and I know that they may not be as much of a priority for you as they were for your brother."

"What about your happiness?" Faramir asked. "I know I was not your first choice for a husband and I do not want you to harbour regrets."

"Actually you were my first choice, Faramir," Éomer corrected firmly. "I admit marriage was not on my mind when I last visited Gondor, but when Aragorn suggested you the idea became a lot more appealing. I could have pushed for someone else, but I never even entertained the thought after meeting you."

"But…" Faramir shook his head, whether in denial or confusion.

"You are a brave warrior, respected and beloved by your men, an excellent advisor, dedicated and loyal to your people with far more political savvy than I could ever hope to possess and a true son of Gondor, kind and gentle and so very beautiful. Please do not doubt my willingness to love you as fiercely and as devotedly as you deserve."

"You cannot mean that," Faramir's voice was barely a whisper. "I am nothing like what you described and this… this is not a love match."

"I do," Éomer corrected, running his fingers through Faramir's soft locks. "And I am not resigned to a loveless marriage just because we entered into it for political reasons. Does that seem unreasonable to you?"

"I… no, I suppose not," Faramir murmured, but he sounded far from convinced.

Éomer sighed, dusting a kiss over Faramir's knuckles. "I know those are only pretty words and you have no reason to believe me."

"I want to," Faramir admitted softly, ducking his head even further as if expecting a cuff or an angry tirade.

"That is more than I had hoped for," Éomer answered honestly. "I want the chance to love you, Faramir, and to earn your love in return."

"All right," Faramir agreed, too quickly, too reflexively and Éomer felt a shudder down his own back at the realisation that they could quickly slide back into the same destructive pattern.

"That is what **I** want, Faramir. But this needs to be your decision, though you need not make it alone. Listen to Boromir's voice inside your head and talk to someone, to Éowyn if you trust her enough, or to Aragorn or one of your men in Gondor. You are not a prisoner here and while you will be missed, it might do you some good to get a bit of distance. I will wait."

He left then, closing the door softly behind him, because he wasn't sure he had the strength for further discussions, for Faramir's pleading gaze, for the pain he imagined hidden under a thin veneer of composure. If he was honest with himself, he was afraid what either of them might agree to if he didn't leave.

* * *

Being king didn't lend itself to idleness or daydreaming, but still it was almost impossible to ban Faramir from his thoughts. He tried to tell himself that the decision was in Faramir's hands now, that no amount of worrying could change the past. But still he replayed their conversations in his head, attempted to detect any small nuance or unusual wording he might have missed the first time - like he had missed so many things. He found himself clenching his hands in helpless anger, wondering what other hurts he may have caused his own husband, how deeply he really failed him, and if there was even a chance to fix this.

He made his excuses for Faramir, asking that he not be disturbed, and ordered Faramir's meals to be delivered to their rooms. He wished he could do more and worried that Faramir might feel deserted. But the last thing he wanted was for Faramir to feel pressured and thus he kept his distance.

He only returned to their chambers after the evening meal, gently rapping his knuckles against the door.

"Come in!" Faramir called, facing him as soon as he entered the room. "Good evening, Éomer."

"Good evening," Éomer returned the greeting. "I was hoping to get some things, if that is all right with you."

"It is not actually," Faramir replied, startling him with the quiet resolution in his voice. "I appreciate you trying to give me space I neither asked for nor wanted, but if you want to get your things now that is a lot more solitude than I am prepared to endure."

"Faramir…" Éomer hesitated at the door. "I do not want to pressure you into a decision you are not ready for."

"You said we were equals?" Faramir demanded, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands relaxed at his side.

"Of course," Éomer replied immediately. "I do not mean to subdue you."

"Then please respect that I can make my own decisions. Simply because you think you treated me wrongly, that you hurt me and that I was too scared or too pathetic to speak up against it, does not mean you get to negate any decision I make from now on, disregard all of my opinions or take away my agency. I never felt like a victim until you started treating me like one."

Faramir's voice was still soft and steady, his gaze unflinching and direct.

Éomer swallowed heavily. Had he treated Faramir like that? Had he been too mired in his own guilt and anger to notice how much his attempts to handle the situation had hurt Faramir? Had he made everything worse by expecting Faramir to conform to what he assumed would be an adequate reaction to being raped by one's own husband? He jerked internally at the word that had slipped into his thoughts unbidden. Faramir might have a different opinion on what had happened, but Éomer refused to whitewash what he had done, refused to skirt responsibility. He wanted to make amends; he wanted to make Faramir happy. But that wasn't what he had tried to do, was it? He had accused Faramir of being complicit in his own rape and shifted part of the blame onto his already stooped shoulders. He had pushed and prodded and argued to convert Faramir to his point of view, to make Faramir hate him as much as he thought he deserved, as much as he hated himself. He had talked at Faramir instead of listening to Faramir's own timidly voiced opinions and that had got to stop. He owed Faramir far more consideration than that.

"Please believe me that that is the last thing I wanted."

"I do, of course," Faramir answered. "And I understand that you are worried. But if this is to be my decision, you have to trust that I know what is best for me and not try to convince me otherwise."

Éomer inclined his head in agreement, motioning to the table to indicate that they should sit down. "And have you made your decision?"

"In part," Faramir answered, obligingly sinking into the chair opposite of him. "I thought about what Boromir would want for me and what he would expect of me. He taught me almost everything I know, including that running away from problems only gives them space to grow insurmountable. I am not prepared to give up on our marriage and I hope neither are you."

"I am not giving up, either," Éomer assured him, reaching out and intertwining their hands.

Faramir breathed a sigh of relief, smiling slightly at him. "Thank you."

"I hope you agree with me that things will have to change, though," Éomer pointed out, rubbing his thumb absently over Faramir's knuckles.

Faramir nodded, nervously licking his lips. "Equality."

"Honesty."

"Trust."

"I would say that is a good basis," Éomer agreed. "Have you decided anything else?" Faramir worried his lip between his teeth, gnawing on words that wouldn't roll off his tongue. "Honesty, remember?"

"I do not want to share your bed... intimately," Faramir said softly, avoiding Éomer's gaze.

"Thank you for telling me. It seems like a good idea to me," Éomer assured him, squeezing Faramir's fingers a little tighter. "I realise that I put too much emphasis on the physical aspects of our union. We barely knew each other and I just assumed that familiarity would follow naturally in the wake of intimacy and passion. I was obviously wrong."

"I am not saying never again," Faramir was quick to assure him. "But I have to figure some things out first. I'd understand if you... looked elsewhere or..."

"Faramir," Éomer interrupted him sharply. "I have no interest in looking elsewhere. And I have no intention of sharing you, either."

While Faramir stuttered out an avalanche of apologies, Éomer bit his tongue until he tasted blood. He was certain Faramir had not intended to turn their marriage into an open arrangement, but had instead made his offer to be generous. Still, at the thought of Faramir turning to someone else, sharing his bed with a faceless man who managed to illicit true moans of pleasure, strum his lust like the strings of a harp, make his body arch into his every touch, anger - no, jealousy - had welled up in his belly and clouded his mind. And now Faramir once more looked like a startled colt, all wide eyes and jerking movements, as if he was ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

"It seems I have to apologise again," he started softly. "Not for the meaning of my words for I was quite serious about that, but for my tone and wording. You are not something to be shared and even if you were, it would not be my decision to make. But it would be remiss not to tell you that I hope to be the only man in your life."

"Of course, Éomer," Faramir whispered. "I promise."

"Thank you," the young king replied. "And I give you the same promise."

Faramir nodded jerkily, but seemed unwilling to continue their conversation. Maybe they had talked too much already, like in a constant tug-of-war, charging ahead only to find themselves pulled back by another issue. As much as Éomer wanted to believe that they could rebuild their relationship on equality, honesty and trust, there was a part of him that still doubted Faramir would be open about his fears and wishes, and if anything his latest outburst had shown that Faramir was only too quick to cower away and submit to what he thought were Éomer's desires.

"The room next door is empty," he offered after a moment of silence. "I could sleep there and we can still take our meals together and arrange our schedules so that we can get to know each other better. Would that be agreeable to you?"

Faramir nodded and even helped Éomer to pack some things for the night before he brought him to the door and firmly closed it behind him.


	5. Little Chapters

_“Are there not little chapters in everybody’s life that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of history?”_  
\- William Makepeace Thackeray,  Vanity Fair

The next day, Edoras was in uproar. Éomer had been woken in the middle of the night by a pale and wide-eyed Faramir, who in turn had been woken by a frantic servant, to inform him that Éowyn had gone into labour. He dressed in haste and they made their way together to Éowyn’s quarters where they found Leofric already pacing nervously in the corridor, unladylike curses and screams echoing even through the thick wooden door.

A short while later, servants brought chairs and refreshments for the three men, though neither of them partook of the offered amenities. There hung a palpable tension in the air, every noise from inside the birthing chamber shredding Éomer’s nerves a little bit further until everything inside him was quivering. For days, all he could think about had been Faramir and perhaps that was why Éowyn’s pregnancy suddenly pushing to the foreground was such a shock. It sounded as if she was being tortured and every instinct in him demanded that he help his little sister - only that there was no way to do that.

“Éowyn is the strongest person I know,” Leofric said after a particularly loud scream, his dark blond hair in disarray from his constant nervous tugging. “She will be fine. She will be fine.”

Éomer grunted in vague agreement, all his senses on high alert and his fists refusing to unclench. Faramir, who perhaps had the least to lose, offered a soft murmur of encouragement, but when Éomer briefly glanced at him, he still looked pale and wide-eyed. They fell silent again. And listened to Éowyn’s screams that drowned out the soft murmur of the midwife, the scuttling footsteps of her maids, their own strained breaths.

Until finally, hours later, with the sun already having completed the better part of its journey across the sky, Éofred, son of Leofric, and heir apparent to the throne of Rohan, greeted the world with an almighty scream that was in no way inferior to those of his mother.

It was some time before they were allowed into the room and then the newly minted parents were reluctant to hand over their infant son, but finally Leofric gently placed the small bundle into Éomer’s waiting arms, his fingers caressing lingeringly over the small face.

“He is beautiful,” Faramir murmured, peeking around Éomer’s shoulder and gently tucked the soft blanket around a tiny exposed foot.

“Well,” Éomer said, warily glancing from the wrinkled and red little face to his sister’s tired smile. “Sure. He is strong and healthy, is he not? That is the most important thing.”

“A very strong little fellow, my lord,” the midwife offered, taking the child from his arms. “I’ll just clean him up a wee bit, my lady, so that you can get some rest.”

“Thank you, Rosa,” Éowyn said, smiling into Leofric’s kiss. “And thank you for your support.”

“Try to get some sleep,” Éomer ordered, pressing a kiss to Éowyn’s sweaty forehead. “I am incredibly proud of you.”

Éowyn chuckled softly, weakly punching his arm. “I love you, too. You and Faramir should get some sleep as well.”

She sent him a significant look and Éomer shook his head slightly to communicate that this was an issue for another day.

“Let us know if either of you needs something,” Faramir offered, clasping Leofric’s shoulder and brushing a kiss over the back of Éowyn’s hand.

“Thank you, Faramir,” Éowyn gave them another smile as Faramir held the door open.

Éomer took a few steps out into the corridor where they had spent so much time, then halted to allow Faramir to catch up with him. “Would you care for a night cap?”

“It is not actually night,” Faramir pointed out with a small smile. “But sure. I am still too excited to sleep.”

“Likewise,” Éomer agreed, daring to rest a hand at the small of Faramir’s back as they reached their quarters to guide him to the table before he poured them each a drink. “Let us drink to the next King of Rohan.”

“May he live and reign in peace and prosperity,” Faramir added and they clinked their glasses together before drinking deeply.

The alcohol burned down his throat, warmed and quickened his blood, and if the flush on Faramir’s cheeks was any indication it had a similar effect on his young husband. They emptied their glasses in companionable silence, refilled them two or three times, and Faramir grew more and more loose-limbed and to Éomer’s gaze more and more appealing. All the more beautiful and attractive for how out of his reach he now was.

“Did you ever want children of your own?” Faramir interrupted his absent-minded stargazing.

“I never considered it to be honest,” Éomer answered. “I always knew that I preferred the company of men, so it was not really in the cards for me. We do not really have the right equipment for childbearing.” He waggled his eyebrows and received a snort for his efforts. “Did you?”

Faramir took another sip from his drink before answering. “I would have liked to,” he finally admitted quietly. “I guess, it was not in the cards for me, either.”

Éomer reached for his hands, squeezing them tight between his own. “I am sorry.”

“A lot of things did not turn out the way I would have planned them,” Faramir answered diplomatically. “It does not mean I cannot make the most of what I do have.”

“That is very wise of you,” Éomer said, his vision blurring slightly at the edges as he turned his head a little too fast. “And I think, it will be a wise decision for me to bid you good night before I become a maudlin drunk.”

Or a handsy drunk, he added silently, but that was something he didn’t need to burden Faramir with. He pushed to his feet and left with only a chaste kiss to Faramir’s forehead. In the room next door, he fell onto the bed and drifted off almost immediately.

* * *

Éomer would have liked to say that over the next couple of weeks he made appreciable strides in his relationship with Faramir. They took their meals together every day and he arranged outings and allowed himself to linger in the evenings. But Faramir remained politely reserved, open only to a point before he withdrew into himself, and though he allowed all of Éomer’s touches, he didn’t exactly welcome them. It was as if Faramir had built an invisible wall around himself, fortified it with a castle moat, and watched all of Éomer’s advances bounce off against his defences.

It was a new and frustrating experience for the young king and he was hard pressed to give Faramir the time and space he seemed to need. He wanted to push, wanted to force a decision, so that he could move past this strange impasse and knew if there was even a chance for them still. If Faramir could ever forgive him for something he was not even willing to admit had happened.

Thus, he watched the arrival of a handful of Ithilien rangers with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he hoped that Faramir might open up to his friends, might find the emotional support and encouragement he needed. On the other hand, he was afraid Faramir would only distance himself further.

“King Éomer.” The captain sketched a half bow. “I bring greetings from King Elessar and the best of wishes to the birth of your nephew.” He motioned two of his men forward who carried a huge chest between them and deposited it in front of him.

When it swung open it was full off baby things: soft blankets and pillows, tiny clothes for all seasons and occasions, rattles and carved figurines, books and a filigree music box with crystal horses galloping around a white tree.

“Thank you,” Éomer said, picking out a delicate crystal rattle and waving it in front of his nephew’s fascinated gaze. “Please convey my gratitude to King Elessar once you return. But for now, be welcome to my kingdom, shake off your weariness and enjoy our hospitality.”

The captain and his rangers inclined their heads and then relaxed their reserved stance to greet Faramir with unbridled enthusiasm. Faramir, for his part, returned their smiles and greetings with the same joy, pulling the captain and another ranger into a loose embrace before he led them off. Éomer just stopped himself from calling him back.


	6. Where Is Your Heart?

_“Always resignation and acceptance. Always prudence and honour and duty. Elinor, where is your heart?”_  
\- Jane Austen,  Sense and Sensibility

Over the next few days he saw little of his husband and when he did, it was often in the company of at least of one of the rangers. There was familiarity between them, kinship forged on the battlefield, loyalty that had not dimmed with distance, and he hated the jealousy that surged up at the thought of how they knew a Faramir he would probably never be privy to. It didn’t help matters that it was his own fault for rushing Faramir into unearned intimacy and not taking the time to establish a more profound connection.

He had just concluded a meeting with his marshals, thinking vaguely of visiting with his sister and his nephew, when Captain Baranor of the Ithilien rangers stopped him. “Your majesty, might I have a moment of your time? In private?”

“Let us adjourn to my study,” Éomer agreed readily, curious to know what this might be about, and lead the way. He waited for Baranor to close the door before he addressed him again. “What is it you want, captain?”

“May I speak freely, my lord?” Baranor enquired, his bearded face serious and his dark eyes almost glum under his prominent eyebrows.

“I ask that you do,” Éomer said immediately.

“I am concerned for our Lord Faramir,” the ranger said.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” Éomer offered carefully. “Though I assure you Faramir is quite safe here.”

“Forgive me, but from what I have heard not even you believe that.” Baranor met his gaze with a quiet challenge. “He does not know that I am here, but he did tell me what happened, and you did not handle the situation as carefully as you should have.”

Éomer pressed his teeth together until his yaw hurt. “I did give you permission to speak freely, but do not presume to lecture me. This is a matter between my husband and me.”

“Faramir followed your advice to get an outside opinion,” Baranor pointed out. “He took me into his confidence and I will not betray it. I want to help.”

“By protecting Faramir from me,” Éomer finished for him. “Is that why I can barely have a private word with my husband anymore?”

Baranor ignored his hostile question, spreading his hands on his knees. “I have known Faramir since his first tour with the Ithilien rangers when he was barely out of boyhood. He was all limbs then, barely any muscle and not an ounce of fat, but he was the first up every morning and the last to go to sleep at night. He was the one who sounded the alarm when we were ambushed in the middle of the night - saved a lot of lives that day. Do you know what Lord Denethor did upon our return? He criticized him for everything and nothing. As he did on every other occasion.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Éomer demanded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with this unprompted revelation.

“You knew Boromir, did you not?” Baranor asked, once again not answering his question. “You would probably describe him as a proud man, strong-willed, stubborn even. But what you need to realise is that Faramir is no less so.”

“You might not know him as well you think if that is your opinion,” Éomer said, standing up to signal the end of their discussion.

Baranor ignored his change in position, barely glancing up. “I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Denethor never realised that he had two wonderful sons. And while he never stinted on praise for Boromir, he only had criticism for Faramir. So Faramir tried harder, tried to be better. That is what he is doing right now.”

“He did nothing wrong,” Éomer protested, sinking back into his chair. “I told him so.”

“He did not believe you,” Baranor answered frankly. “He thinks you are disappointed in him. That he is continuously disappointing you with his ignorance of how to please you. That is why he approached me; he wanted advice on how to pleasure a man.”

“What?” Éomer snapped, clenching his hands on the edge of his desk.

“He also asked me to bring some educational books from Gondor,” the captain replied, getting up. “I thought it best you know so that you will handle him more carefully from now on. He deserves better than to be stuck in another abusive relationship.”

* * *

Éomer was still sitting there an hour later, his mind swirling with thoughts, when Faramir timidly knocked on the door, peeking into the room. “Éomer? Are we not to have dinner together?”

Éomer roused himself enough to send Faramir a pained smile. “I apologise. I must have lost track of time.”

“Is something the matter?” Faramir asked, entering the room and approaching his desk. “Is there something I can do?”

“No, thank you,” Éomer said, trying himself on another smile. “I already feel better now that you are here. Will you sit with me for a moment?”

“Of course,” Faramir agreed, pulling the chair half around the desk so that he was sitting closer and reaching out to rest his hand on the king’s.

Any other day, Éomer would have relished the voluntarily initiated contact, but now he could only wonder about Faramir’s motivations. Did he want this? Was he forcing himself? He turned his hand palm up so that he could twine their fingers.

“I enjoy your company, our talks,” he offered. “And you seem happier with your friends from Gondor here.”

“It is good to see them again,” Faramir agreed, still reserved in spite of the gentle smile on his face. “Though it is strange to think that they are not **my** men anymore.”

“I think they will always be your men,” Éomer corrected. “Once you earn someone’s loyalty and respect you have it - whether you get married or not.”

“I think it gets slightly more complicated when you marry the ruler of another kingdom,” Faramir said with a quirk of lips. “But thank you.”

“Captain Baranor mentioned that you asked for his advice,” Éomer ventured after a moment of silence, soothingly rubbing his thumb over Faramir’s knuckles when he felt the increasing tension. “I am always available if you think there is something I can assist you with.”

He expected the blush, the sudden flush to Faramir’s cheeks, and he couldn’t help but find it endearing. Faramir was this constant contradiction: reserved yet endlessly forthcoming in his generosity and willingness to help, shy but startlingly direct at times, and perhaps, modest but too proud to admit defeat, to reveal his vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

“I did not go into details,” Faramir assured him hastily. “I just wanted to know how to do better.”

“Faramir... I do not want you to do better. I want you to be happier.” Éomer sighed heavily. “What happened is not a reflection on you - you did nothing wrong.” He held up a hand to silence Faramir’s protests. “I know we have different interpretations on that and I promised not to treat you like a victim. So let me just say that I would like to be the one to teach you about intimacy, when and if you are ready. You do not have to figure this out on your own - and you do not have to be perfect.”

“I would not... it was only theoretical,” Faramir protested. “Like reading a book.”

“I do not think you can learn about something like that from a book,” Éomer pointed out mildly. “And I was not accusing you of anything. If talking to a friend or... doing something else, is what you need to do right now, I am not going to stand in your way.” He got up, pressing a lingering kiss to Faramir’s forehead. “Good night, Faramir. I will see you tomorrow for breakfast.”

He moved past Faramir, feeling weary and old beyond his years.

“Éomer.” Faramir stopped him. “I have no interest in experiencing these… intimacies with anybody else and I wish you would stop insinuating that I will or should. That being said, I guess I do still have a few questions, if you would not mind answering them for me?”

There was an ever so slight quiver to his words, as if Faramir wasn’t quite sure he wanted to say them out loud, but there was also resolve in his eyes and quiet gratitude when Éomer retook his seat. “Thank you for your candour and please, feel free to ask or tell me anything.”

Faramir took a deep breath before he visibly steeled himself. “It is not so much the... functional principle of the matter. I understand how two men have intercourse; I knew enough about it when I entered into this marriage.”

“But?” Éomer asked, refraining from pointing out that theoretical knowledge was not quite the same as active experience.

“But I do not see how it can be enjoyable for both partners,” Faramir admitted softly. “Any of what we did.”

“You did not enjoy it when I pleasured you with my hand, my mouth?” Éomer asked, gently capturing Faramir’s hands.

Faramir bit his lip and Éomer did his best to communicate his willingness to listen without prejudice to what Faramir had to say. But when Faramir still hesitated, his mind began to spin again. There was no doubt that Faramir had physically enjoyed those times, but Éomer had had to learn the hard way that wringing an orgasm from his husband did not connote consent. He had probably overwhelmed him, certainly with his first advance in Minas Tirith, and it wasn’t acceptable that Faramir’s first sexual experience had been with someone he hardly knew, someone who had left him no choice. It had been a stupid question.

“It is not...” Faramir interrupted him, squeezing his fingers. “I did enjoy it, but how can I justify that to myself when you did not?”

Éomer blinked in surprise. “Faramir, with how selfish I have been - do you really think I would have initiated any of this if I did not enjoy it?” He continued before Faramir could answer. “Giving you pleasure, feeling you shake apart in my grip, tasting your essence on my tongue, seeing the flush on our cheeks, the hazy lust in your eyes – there is nothing I love more. You are beautiful in the throes of passion and to know that I was the one to break through that armour of politeness and duty? I have never felt more powerful.”

“Oh,” Faramir said, a blush staining his cheeks. “That is... good.”

Éomer studied his young husband, wondering if he should dare to push a little further, to suggest they add a little practical experience to their discussion, but then thought better of it. Faramir didn’t need to be pushed; he deserved to have all the time in the world.

“Do you have anything else I can help you with?” he asked instead.

“You know that... I did not necessarily enjoy it when...” Faramir started haltingly, stumbling over his words.

“When I was inside you?” Éomer suggested gently, receiving a nod.

“But Baranor and Duilin assured me that even without excessive preparation and... something to smooth the way they both enjoyed it. Why...?” Faramir looked up at him in supplication and didn’t finish his question.

He didn’t have to; it was written all over his face, in his posture, his eyes. “Faramir, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you or with how you reacted.” He swallowed the self-recriminations and instead focused all his attention back on his husband. “You are allowed not to like something.”

“But...”

“I do not care for whispers in my ear, or nibbling or licking - too ticklish,” Éomer interrupted him. “But I do enjoy kisses pretty much everywhere and the soft scrape of beard or a hint of teeth on my chest, around my nipples. I like things to be playful, spontaneous and I have no interest in pain or humiliation. I prefer to be the one holding the reins so to speak, but I would not mind having you inside me. I think I would enjoy that very much actually.”

Faramir looked ever so slightly shell-shocked and Éomer wondered if handing out all this intimate information had been the best way to approach his prudish and inexperienced husband. “What I meant to say is - ”

“I do not know that,” Faramir interrupted him uncharacteristically. “I do not know what I like and what I do not like. I just... You must think me so blundering.”

“Not at all,” Éomer reassured him, wanting to pull Faramir into his arms and offer him some comfort, but not daring to breach the distance between them. “Exploring your partner and your own desires is one of the most enjoyable aspects of making love – it is not about cold hard facts.”

“You said it was my decision how we would go forward from here,” Faramir said and Éomer was quick to agree. “But how can I make any decision when I do not know what my choices entail?”

“You are allowed to change your mind, Faramir,” Éomer replied carefully. “If you were to decide that you were ready for **some** experimentation, it would be at your pace and if you were to discover that you did not enjoy one thing or the other? We would stop or do something else. I promise you, it would not be like before. I will not ever take your consent or your enjoyment for granted again.”

“In that case,” Faramir said softly after a short pause. “I think I would like it if we could... experiment.”

He leaned closer, his kiss barely a breath when he sealed their lips and remained there, his eyes open and fixed onto Éomer’s to wait for some kind of cue. Éomer carefully slid his hand into Faramir’s soft hair, cradling his skull with all the gentleness he could muster, and tilted his own head to make their kiss more comfortable. He licked across the seam of Faramir’s lips and the other man obediently allowed him access, even moved his tongue in a hesitant dance. It still wasn’t a very passionate kiss, more awkward than anything else, but Faramir was there in the moment with him, attentive, responsive to a degree and so very sweet in his innocence.

He idly stroked Faramir’s cheekbones after he broke the kiss, studying the changing expressions on his husband’s face. “How was that?” he asked gently.

“We have kissed before,” Faramir pointed out.

“I never bothered to ask whether you enjoyed it or not,” Éomer replied evenly. “I am asking now.”

“It was...” Faramir absently licked his lips, commanding all of Éomer’s attention. “Good... yes, good. I would like to do that again.”

Éomer smiled, leading Faramir’s hands, one after the other, to his lips and kissing his knuckles. “And we have already found something that we both enjoy.”

Faramir returned his smile, then took a deep breath as if to brace himself. “I also enjoy hugs, being held. If... I mean, if you would be amenable that is.”

“Very,” Éomer agreed immediately, already mentally calculating how to best initiate the desired hug. He could scoot his chair closer to Faramir’s and they could both lean forward – his back protested at the very thought. Or he could lean against the wall and gather Faramir close – that would have to do.

“Do you think you could hold me in bed?” Faramir’s timid question stopped him. “I do not think I am ready for anything more, but I sleep better with you next to me.”

Éomer looked up at him in surprise. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

Faramir avoided his gaze, shifting uncomfortably on his chair before he got up abruptly and turned towards the door. “I have nightmares sometimes. It is nothing.”

Éomer doubted that very much, but didn’t press Faramir further. He closed the distance between them and opened the door for his husband. “Of course, I would be happy to share your bed again.”

Faramir gave him a nervous smile and they walked to their quarters in silence. Éomer wanted to put his arm around Faramir, to hold his hand or have any physical contact at all, but Faramir seemed lost in thought and he was loathe to disturb him.

Their quarters hadn’t changed except for the mountain of books and assorted notes that had migrated to Éomer’s side of the bed. Faramir blushed when he noted the direction of his gaze, apologising and hastily gathering everything to dump it on the table.

“You do not have to apologise for making yourself at home,” Éomer pointed out. “And you certainly do not have to be nervous. If you want me to leave you only have to say the word.”

“I do not want you to leave,” Faramir protested. “I want you here.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Éomer said with a smile. “So how much physical contact were you thinking? Would you prefer that I keep my clothes on?”

He had never seen Faramir’s cheeks reach quite that nuance of scarlet. Faramir stuttered, starting several sentences only to abandon them after the first word, until he finally managed to formulate an answer, “Maybe you could keep your trousers on?”

Éomer nodded readily before pulling his tunic over his head without further delay. He heard Faramir’s shocked gasp, but when his vision was clear again, his young husband had turned his back. He sighed inaudibly, but decided to give Faramir time to gather himself. He had to trust that Faramir would tell him if something was truly bothering him.

He toed of his shoes and socks, tugged the small leather strip out of his hair and went over to the basin to have a quick wash before he slipped into bed, all the while pretending that he wasn’t hyperaware of Faramir’s timid and stilted movements on the other side of the room.

When Faramir finally turned back around, he had taken off his shoes and socks, undone his belt and removed his padded vest so that he remained in an off-white tunic and soft-worn breeches. “I get cold,” Faramir said apologetically as he slipped under the covers next to Éomer.

Éomer slipped his arms around Faramir’s trim waist, pulling him close against his chest and burying his nose for a moment in soft cinnamon hair before he drew back to judge Faramir’s reaction. “I will keep you warm tonight.”

Faramir smiled timidly, reaching out wrap his own arms around Éomer, his slim, cool fingers dancing along the knobs of his spine, tracing the contours of his defined muscles as if he was trying to memorise them. “Thank you.”

Éomer carefully tightened his arms, pushing his knee between Faramir’s legs more to get comfortable than to initiate further intimacy. Faramir tensed for a moment, his muscles growing rigid beneath Éomer’s touch before he relaxed again when nothing more aggressive followed.

To Éomer’s surprise, Faramir drifted off to sleep soon after, his grip growing lax and his breaths deep and even. Éomer studied him for a few moments longer before he allowed his own eyes to slip closed.

* * *

Éomer woke with a start when the comforting warm weight on his chest suddenly jerked back and his eyes prickled uncomfortably as he opened them too abruptly. He tried to gather his sleep-addled faculties to determine if there was cause for alarm, but no warning bells rang nor was there commotion in their chambers. Only Faramir looked like he was trying to find the best place to hide. He dropped back into the pillows, throwing an arm over his eyes. For a moment, only a moment, he allowed himself to think that it was too early for this.

Then he pushed that thought aside and reached a hand out to his husband. “I do not know about you, but I happen to think having my husband in my arms is a great way to start the day. Would you like another hug?”

Faramir fumbled for words, blushing bright red as he awkwardly gestured to his groin, then darted a glance at where the covers where slightly tented from Éomer’s own erection.

“Faramir, that is a perfectly normal reaction for healthy young men. It does not mean that I will pin you to the bed to have my way with you,” Éomer explained, praying for patience.

“I was not insinuating that,” Faramir protested, finally finding his voice. “But... when we shared a bed before... and it has not happened to me in a while.”

“You mentioned that you are often plagued by nightmares?” Éomer ventured. “Did you sleep well tonight?”

“I did, actually,” Faramir said, a little furrow appearing between his brows as he drew the connection. “Oh. I apologise.”

Éomer laughed softly, finally managing to gather Faramir back in his arms. “It is quite all right. Honestly, I am flattered that you felt at ease with me next to you.”

He allowed his eyes to drift shut again, dozing off for a few more moments of precious togetherness.

“Éomer? Can I kiss you?” Faramir whispered.

“Of course, if you would like to,” Éomer agreed readily, slipping his hand into Faramir’s soft hair. “I daresay that would make my morning even better.”

He gave Faramir his most charming smile, absently brushing his thumb over the soft skin behind his young husband’s ear. When Faramir had gathered his courage and leaned down to seal their lips in a kiss, he reacted carefully but without delay so as not to discourage Faramir’s sudden bout of daring.

He needn’t have worried. A good night’s sleep seemed to have done wonders for Faramir’s confidence and though his kisses were still inexperienced and slightly awkward they were no longer timid. Faramir’s hands also started to wander, caressing Éomer’s chest, down his sides and over his abdominals, gripping his shoulders and pressing him back into the mattress when he surged up to chase Faramir’s retreating mouth.

“I want you naked,” Faramir informed him, blushed, then tilted up his chin defiantly. “If you please.”

“Gladly.” Éomer grinned, rolling out of bed with unparalleled enthusiasm.

Faramir wasn’t quite able to keep his gaze fixed on him as he slowly pushed down his trousers, teasing them down his legs and freeing his straining erection. But he didn’t shy away when Éomer approached the bed once more, stopping at the edge within easy reach of Faramir.

“You can look and you can touch, if want,” Éomer murmured softly. “Or you can tell me to get dressed and fetch some breakfast.”

Faramir shook his head in frustration. “I appreciate you concern but I want to do this. And I will tell you if there is something that makes me uncomfortable.”

Éomer nodded, trying to push his doubts aside and accept what Faramir so obviously wanted to be true. He leaned into Faramir’s touch when it came, followed his tugs and pushes until he was once again spread out on the bed with Faramir pressed along his side. The path Faramir had previously explored with his fingers he now laid claim to with his lips, soft brushes, small licks and even a few too light bites that nonetheless roused Éomer’s interest.

He pulled his right leg up, half to get more comfortable and half to draw Faramir’s attention to his heretofore neglected erection. Faramir drew in a fortifying breath but took the hint and wrapped his hand carefully around Éomer’s erection. Éomer almost groaned in frustration at too little pressure, too light warmth, too timid friction. Even though he suppressed any sound, Faramir must have read something on his face, his brows furrowing in mulish concentration as he tightened his grip by degrees and sped up the movement of his hand. Éomer didn’t suppress his groan of approval.

“Tell me what you like?” Faramir asked. “Tell me how to pleasure you?”

“Let me guide you,” Éomer offered, wrapping his hand over Faramir’s and closing his fingers more tightly. “I like a little bit more pressure and you can vary slow and fast strokes, brush your thumb over the head every now and then. Just like that...”

Faramir was a quick study and very good at following instructions, as it turned out, and Éomer closed his eyes to escape his too focused gaze, sharpened by curiosity and an ambition to learn and not hazy with natural desire. He stretched his body into Faramir’s touch, allowed sighs and soft moans to escape his parted lips to show his husband his appreciation as he felt his arousal built and rock steadily higher.

“Can you... would you touch me as well?” Faramir hazarded before following with a quick addendum. “Above the waist and nothing too intense... just touching.”

“I thought you would never ask,” Éomer replied with a grin, snaking his hand into Faramir’s hair to pull him into a kiss. “Intercourse is all about the give and take. It does not feel right to have one without the other.”

And maybe, he thought, as he rolled them around and showed Faramir all the possibilities to touch and caress and blandish, the problem was also that Faramir was not merely inexperienced but also naturally more inclined to be the one to be seduced rather than take the initiative himself.

Faramir was very responsive, almost eager, to Éomer’s touch, arching his back and pressing up against him amidst sighs of pleasure, which made it easy to establish a rhythm that suited them both. Éomer had been close to the peak before, but now he allowed his arousal to cool slightly as he focused on catching Faramir up while respecting the constraints Faramir had set.

“I can still hear you thinking,” Éomer murmured between sucking kisses along the slender column of Faramir’s neck. “Loudly. When I want you to just feel, enjoy. I must be doing something wrong.” He delivered a gentle bite to Faramir’s yaw and smiled at him to show that he was joking.

“I do not know how to stop thinking,” Faramir admitted, grabbing onto Éomer’s broad shoulders to anchor himself. “But this does feel nice.”

“Good, otherwise I might have been worried,” Éomer murmured, startling a surprised gasp from his young husband when he undid the lacing of his shirt and swirled his tongue around one dusty nipple, then sucked it into his mouth. “I love the sounds you make.”

A shudder went through Faramir’s body and he clutched tighter to Éomer’s shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his head back into the pillows, arching his back. It gave Éomer an idea.

“I never had a lover with skin so fair that you could see the blush travel down his body,” he whispered, following his words with a gentle caress along Faramir’s torso. “And I do so enjoy making you blush – it makes you even more beautiful.”

Faramir jerked, whether from his words or from the unintended contact between his still clothed erection and Éomer’s naked lower half, and Éomer dared to lower himself more fully against his inexperienced lover, gently undulating his hips against Faramir’s groin.

“And your taste - more intoxicating than elvish wine,” Éomer continued his commentary, swallowing Faramir’s next moan in a kiss. “If I could live from your kisses alone, I would be the happiest man in Middle Earth... Come to think of it, I do consider myself lucky to be married to a man who is not only handsome and brave, but also kind and forgiving. Rohan could not wish for a better King Consort nor I for a better husband.”

“You flatter me,” Faramir whispered, his expression closing down as he struggled free from underneath Éomer. “But I do not deserve your pretty words.”

“Maybe that has been my mistake,” Éomer mused, pulling Faramir gently back into his arms. “That I assumed you knew your own worth, that you were as confident as on the battlefield in every aspect of your life. But hear me, Faramir, son of Gondor, I meant every word I just said and I will spend my life proving it to you.”

He turned Faramir’s head and pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for this morning. I hope we can resume our explorations when the mood is right again, but for now I think it is time to break our fast.”

He trailed his hand soothingly over Faramir’s tense shoulders as he got up and then slipped into a fresh pair of trousers and a new shirt. He hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that Faramir was still decent before he opened the door to pull in the breakfast-laden tray that a solicitous maid must have left for them. When he turned back to the room, Faramir had straightened his clothes and joined him at the table with a hesitant smile.

“I am not used to receiving compliments,” he admitted shyly, offering the basket of bread to Éomer. “And so much of what people say is couched in falsehoods and empty phrases.”

“True indeed,” Éomer agreed affably as he poured them something to drink. “My sister once said that she does not listen to compliments or slights but to the intent behind them. You can find good and bad intentions in both.”

“And what were your intentions, Éomer?” Faramir questioned.

“I wanted to make you feel good, cherished, loved,” Éomer said without hesitation. “And, I admit, I wanted to make you blush.”

Faramir did just that, taking a hasty gulp from his cup. “Why?”

“Because you are even more beautiful when you blush,” Éomer replied with a smirk. “And because you are honest when you do. A blush might mean many things: that you are embarrassed or flattered or angry. But it also means you are not hiding, that you are not putting on a brave face because you think that is what I expect of you.”

Faramir was silent for a moment before he pointed out, “You agreed to trust me.”

“And I swore to myself that I would never hurt you again,” Éomer gave back. “I trust you when you tell me what you want to do. I trust myself when I think we should stop. Aragorn pointed out to me that there are two people in a marriage and I am ashamed to say I did not listen to him at the time. But I am not forgetting it again.”

“Are you reminding me? I apologise if I was selfish.”

“Faramir, you are the least selfish person I know,” Éomer replied, squeezing the other man’s hand. “And this was not meant as a reproach, merely a justification for what you must have perceived as a breach of trust.”

Faramir sighed softly, his wavy hair shimmering red in the morning light. “I feel like...”

“Tell me,” Éomer urged when Faramir broke off. “I promise there is nothing you could say to make me think less of you.”

Faramir looked up at him, studying him with old blue eyes. “I feel like there is no firm ground beneath my feet. If I draw back you are hurt; if I push forward you stop me. Sometimes you act like you want me to hate you, to blame you, but I cannot. And what would it accomplish? You would feel worse and I would waste the rest of my life on hatred and anger. That is not what I want, Éomer, that is not who I am.”

“I am beginning to see that, yes,” Éomer answered, rubbing his thumb over the back of Faramir’s hand. “And I am sorry my intentions seem so mercurial to you. In truth, I do not want you to hate me. Of course not. But if you do not hate me for what I did, if you are not at least angry, how can I be sure that you know how much I have wronged you and that you will not let me do so again?”

“I do not think we will ever agree on what happened before,” Faramir said softly. “But I see how torn up you are about it. If for no other reason, I would stop you. You have my word. But I need to leave this behind, start fresh, because I am happy here in Rohan and I want to be happy in our marriage.”

Faramir’s promise left him feeling conflicted. There was relief that Faramir had given his word to stop him, but also worry and exasperation that the reason was Éomer’s wellbeing rather than his own. But maybe Faramir was right and they would never agree on this point and on what had happened between them and all they could do was to avoid such mistakes in the future. To try to be happy.

“What can I do to make you happy?”

Faramir hesitated, but then took a fortifying breath and demanded: “Can you just pretend that I am inexperienced, that I am inexperienced and shy and awkward? Not damaged or traumatised or prone to break? If I had told you in the beginning that I had never been with another person before, how would you have treated me? That is what I want.”

Éomer took in Faramir’s pleading expression, the tight pressed line of his mouth and the way the fingers of his hand curled inward. How would he have reacted if Faramir had been upfront about his level of experience? It was an intriguing question that Éomer would be only too glad to answer.

“And so it shall be, my dear Faramir,” Éomer said, grinning at Faramir’s wide-eyed gaze. “You truly are an innocent if you expected me to baulk at such a tempting offer. And now tell me, what are your plans for today?”

“My plans... You are holding court today,” Faramir pointed out, putting an effective damper of Éomer’s soaring ideas. “I am expected to attend, am I not?”

Éomer sighed. “Right, court. Well, it looks like I will have a little while longer to think of how to treat my sweet virgin husband.” He leaned over for a kiss and then quizzed Faramir on the issues they would have to deal with today.

 


	7. In All Its Tainted Glory

_“It takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it. And even more courage to see it in the one you love.”_  
\- Oscar Wilde,  An Ideal Husband

“Come with me,” Éomer commanded, taking Faramir by the wrist and pulling him along the corridors. “I have plans for us.”

“There are still several petitioners,” Faramir pointed out. “Some of them travelled for days to be heard.”

“And they will have suitable accommodations for the night,” Éomer replied dismissively. “Besides, do you really think my reasoning would be just and fair when I could be ravishing my husband instead? Tonight I will be no-one’s king. I will be your husband.”

He stopped briefly to meet Faramir’s gaze and make sure that his words had their intended effect, satisfied when the furrow between Faramir’s eyebrows smoothed and his cheeks heated.

“This is not the way to our quarters, though,” Faramir said a few minutes later.

“Well, I mentioned that I had a plan, did I not?” Éomer said, grinning over his shoulder. “As it is, the first step to seducing your husband is to get him naked. And where better to do that than in the bathhouse?”

“The bathhouse?” Faramir questioned and Éomer was surprised when he stopped abruptly. “Éomer... I do not... I mean I would rather be alone with you.”

“Faramir.” Éomer gently caught Faramir’s face between his hands. “I had them close the baths for tonight. I promise we will have our privacy, but if you would prefer the familiarity of our quarters, I can work with that as well.”

“I am sorry, I did not mean to doubt you,” Faramir said with a soft sigh. “And I would like to go to the baths.”

“Thank you.” Éomer stole a quick kiss and offered Faramir his hand. “And thank you for telling me about your concerns.”

When they reached the bathhouse Faramir looked around curiously and Éomer wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he hadn’t been here before. Even now, with no-one there but Éomer, he seemed self-conscious and ready to retreat.

“The pools all have different temperatures,” Éomer explained as he lighted a few extra candles around the smallest pool. “And that last one is quite deep, but I thought we could try this one first. It is the warmest.”

Faramir nodded, but ducked his head when Éomer turned back to face him.

“What are you worried about, Faramir?” Éomer said, carefully approaching his young husband.

“It is just different than I expected,” Faramir answered. “Though I am not quite sure what I expected.”

Éomer could infer what Faramir had expected from the tension in his body, the way he had shied away from Éomer’s touch and startled when he was addressed the whole day. But he didn’t want to dwell on it and clearly Faramir was ready to move on as well as he began to undo his breaches and toed of his boots. Éomer quickly followed his example, not wanting Faramir to feel at a disadvantage, and had shed all of his clothes by the time Faramir was hesitantly peeling down his breaches.

“Do you need some help with your shirt?” Éomer asked, noticing that as always Faramir had left it for last.

“Why would I need help with that?” Faramir asked, his confusion momentarily overriding his embarrassment. “Do you not want me to take it off?”

“Of course I want you to take it off,” Éomer answered, stepping closer. “But you always left it on before – I thought your shoulder was still troubling you so I never pressed the issue.”

“My shoulder healed well, considering. I assumed you did not wish to look at the scar. You said you liked me with my shirt on.” Faramir pulled his shirt over his head, folding it into a neat square as he awaited Éomer’s judgement.

As he allowed his gaze to travel over Faramir’s exposed form, Éomer chided himself for never taking the time to admire his lover before. The clear, hard lines Faramir tended to hide beneath layers of clothing were now revealed, muscles sculpted by a hard life and harder training, accentuating his broad shoulders and his trim waist. Éomer could see the warrior in his posture, the pride of someone who would rather break than bend. But his eyes were vulnerable and his fair skin and cinnamon hair lent him an unexpected softness. And there was the scar. Contrary to what Faramir had said, his injury had not healed easily. The wound must have got infected and had left a mess of gnarled and puckered skin that still looked painful.

“You are perfect and you have nothing to be ashamed of,” Éomer pronounced, sliding one hand around Faramir’s waist, the other lightly tracing over his shoulder. “You survived this and so much more. Never apologise for that. Never.”

“It looks like we both assumed things about each other,” Faramir said with a timid smile. “A lot of things.”

“We will do better in future,” Éomer promised, leading Faramir to the pool and offering a stabilising hand for him to climb in. “We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other and correct any misconceptions.”

“I do like the sound of that,” Faramir admitted shyly, scooting further along the bench as Éomer followed him into the water. “This is amazing. How can it be so warm?”

Éomer indulged Faramir’s curiosity with a gentle smile, telling him about the water system and the warm spring that fed the bathhouse. He felt Faramir’s tension ease with every titbit of information until his young husband was leaning freely against the side of the pool, his long legs stretched out and floating against Éomer’s every once in a while.

“I am really enjoying this,” Faramir ventured eventually. “But is there a second phase to this evening?”

“Certainly, if you are interested. We could retire to our rooms and see what we are both comfortable with. But there is no pressure to go further tonight – let alone all the way. We are setting the foundation, Faramir.”

“I would like to go a little further,” Faramir answered. “And I wanted to say... Thank you for saying ‘we’.”

“You are very welcome,” Éomer replied softly, handing Faramir a sponge and a bar of honeyed soap.

They washed up in silence until Éomer offered to get Faramir’s back, gently running the soft sponge over Faramir’s broad shoulders and down the defined muscles of his back. He paid special attention to the nape of his neck, playing with the softly curling hair and massaging some tension out of his chorded muscles. He was surprised, pleasantly so, when Faramir relaxed into his hold, resting his back against Éomer’s chest and drifting lower into the water.

“This is the first time I have felt warm in... a long time,” Faramir admitted, his eyes closed and his hands drawing lazy circles in the water.

“The Black Breath?” Éomer questioned, dipping the sponge back into the water and then running it slowly over Faramir’s chest, along his arms, around his neck.

“Yes, but even before that. I was always in Ithilien, on patrol, defending our borders – no time for trivialities such as a hot bath or even a warm fire most nights,” Faramir confessed. “The few times I returned to Minas Tirith... there were other priorities.”

“From now on, your health and wellbeing will always be priorities for me,” Éomer vowed, tucking Faramir’s head against his shoulder. “Let us stay in the warm water a little while longer. I think we have some catching up to do.”

“All right,” Faramir murmured, growing a little heavier with his next exhalation. “This feels really good.”

Éomer chuckled. “We can come back whenever you would like.”

“Thank you, but I was not referring to the water,” Faramir answered, arching his hips just slightly so that the tip of his erection broke briefly through the surface of the water. “Could you... Would you mind...?”

“What do you want, Faramir?” Éomer asked, keeping his touch gentle and unobtrusive. “Tell me.”

“I... I do not know how to ask for... just more, more of this, please,” Faramir pleaded, arching again into his touch.

“Shh, I have got you,” Éomer murmured, drawing slow circles on Faramir’s chest, his fingers catching lightly on his nipples. “Have you ever touched yourself, Faramir? Have you ever imagined someone touching you like this?”

“Not on purpose,” Faramir answered after a short pause. “I had some dreams and... they aroused me.”

“Interesting,” Éomer purred, delivering a teasing nip to Faramir’s earlobe. “Tell me more. What happened in those dreams? Were you alone?”

“I do not remember them clearly,” Faramir answered evasively, but if the sudden red tint to his cheeks was any indication, he did remember something. But, Éomer decided, that was a matter for another day, for when they were more comfortable with each other and when the possible sting of someone else appearing in Faramir’s dreams would be lessened by the memory of many shared intimate moments. He returned his attention to lavishing Faramir’s body with infinite gentleness, allowing the sponge to drift from his grip as his touch turned into slow, long caresses, his fingers gliding over smooth, wet skin, trailing droplets of water over Faramir’s chest, creating soft waves whenever he followed the contours of his body beneath the surface of the water.

“You are beautiful, do you know that?” Éomer murmured, pinching Faramir’s left nipple while his right hand sneaked between his husband’s legs, urging him to spread them wider. “I would tell you all the things I admire about you – adore, really – but then I would not know where to start and where to end.”

His hand had closed around his price and he gave Faramir a moment to recover when he jerked in surprise. “Too much?” he asked gently, wishing for a little more light to better make out Faramir’s expression.

“No, it is fine,” Faramir answered. “I want this. Keep going. Please.”

Éomer was still careful, though, keeping his strokes slow and light, his free hand resting on Faramir’s hip without restraining him. And Faramir responded beautifully, his skin flushing, his breathing becoming more and more uneven and his erection growing heavy in Éomer’s grip.

“Do you want to come, darling?” Éomer murmured in Faramir’s ear, nuzzling his neck.

Faramir nodded, sloshing water around them when he shifted restlessly, trying to press even closer to his husband. Éomer nipped a soft kiss into the corner of Faramir’s mouth and picked up his strokes, adding a little twist on the upstroke and tightening his grip only to loosen it again when Faramir made a broken sound of displeasure. He apologised softly, steadying Faramir’s hips and trying to resist the temptation of rubbing his own erection into the crack of Faramir’s shapely bottom and focusing instead on keeping his husband’s chin over the water as the waves of his orgasm crashed down over him.

He probably hadn’t thought this all the way through, he admitted to himself, watching Faramir’s essence drain away with the intake of fresh water into the pool. Faramir was utterly lax in his grip, not an ounce of tension left in his muscles, blinking lazily up at the ceiling as his breathing slowly evened out.

“That was... not what I was expecting,” Faramir finally admitted, sitting up and taking his own weight as he turned around to face Éomer.

“How so?” Éomer asked, tucking a wet strand of hair behind Faramir’s ear. “This is not the first time I brought you to climax.”

“But this is the first time it felt like it was about me,” Faramir said, looking at him pleadingly. “I am not expressing this adequately. It came out as a reproach when I wanted to thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Éomer answered, kissing Faramir’s brow. “And I could not be happier that you enjoyed yourself.”

“Do you want me to...?” Faramir trailed off, instead making a vague motion with his hand.

“No,” Éomer answered, surprised at how true it was. “What I would like is to help you dry off and take you to our rooms where I will proceed to give you a leisurely backrub and then snuggle up to you in our bed as we both drift off to sleep.”

Faramir hesitated, already parting his lips to protest, but then seemed to reconsider and gave a small nod. “That does sound nice, thank you.”

They shared a smile and soft kiss before clambering out of the pool. And even if Éomer had to covertly douse his bobbing erection in cold water before he could pull on his trousers, it was worth it when Faramir settled trustily against his side, his breathing evening out after only a few short minutes, and fell into a blissful and dreamless sleep.

Éomer himself lay awake for a while still, observing the play of shadows over Faramir’s sleeping form or what was visible of it. Truth be told, he would have liked to see more of his husband, would have liked to study the soft golden planes of his smooth back, the dimples over those delectable buttocks. But Faramir, as always was wrapped tight in a cocoon of blankets, only his light hair peeking out from the top of the covers.

Éomer debated with himself for a moment, but then carefully tugged the blankets from underneath Faramir’s body until he could wriggle himself into that inviting space, carefully sliding his arms around Faramir. It took the span of a few bated breaths, but finally Faramir relaxed into his hold, curling Éomer more firmly around himself when he snuggled back into the blankets.

Éomer buried his smiling face in Faramir’s soft curls. Faramir might not yet be ready to shed his armour, but Éomer could be patient and he was only too happy to join Faramir behind the battlements for the time being. And he felt, for the first time if he was being honest with himself, a deep connection to his young husband, a degree of understanding and intimacy born not from acts of superficial passion but from shared experiences and a profound appreciation of who Faramir was a person and who they could be as husbands, as friends and when the time was right as lovers.

\- THE END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoyed the story and thank you for reading, for your reviews, kudos and bookmarks!  
> Farewell, goodbye and until next time!


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